After Betty gave birth, the charade finally dropped. She stopped hiding it, brazenly bringing other men into our marital bed. When I caught her, there wasn’t a flicker of shame in her eyes. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, a mocking smirk playing on her lips, utterly unburdened by guilt. “The baby is already born, Cole. What exactly are you going to threaten me with this time?” The friends lingering in the hallway all turned their eyes to me, holding their breath, waiting for the explosive, glass-shattering meltdown I used to have. But this time, I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw anything. I just walked past her with a terrifying calm, scooped my infant daughter into my arms, and walked out of the room. From that day on, I became the flawless, invisible husband she had always dreamed of. When the paparazzi came sniffing around her affairs, I quietly paid them off. When she got into screaming matches with her boy toys, I handled the fallout. It wasn’t until our daughter’s one-month milestone that one of her lovers grew bold enough to show up at the house, demanding my place. Betty finally let out a cruel, melodic laugh, joining the others in watching me like I was the punchline to a joke. “Well,” she taunted, eyes gleaming. “How is my perfect, magnanimous husband going to play the saint this time?” I didn’t feel a spark of anger. I just turned, gently placed the baby into her arms, and looked at her. “Consider this child the final payment for the life you saved all those years ago. We’re done.” … 1 The air in the living room turned dead and heavy. Under Betty’s dark, suffocating glare, I kept my voice perfectly level, reciting the baby’s schedule like a machine. “Don’t give her more than two ounces per feeding. She needs to eat every three hours. Make sure her head is elevated above her chest when she takes the bottle…” Betty stared at me, her eyes like chipped ice. Suddenly, she let out a sharp, derisive scoff. “I thought your little silent treatment this past month meant you’d finally wrapped your head around how things work,” she drawled, the disdain dripping from every syllable. “But you’re just playing games again. Cole, do you honestly think this child will just stop breathing without her biological father hovering over her?” She took a step closer. “Let me make this clear. If you walk out that door, there is a line of men waiting to be her father.” Her cold voice echoed through the vaulted ceilings of the estate. In the periphery, the housekeeping staff lowered their eyes, shooting me looks of profound, agonizing pity. I just forced a tight, empty smile. I was used to it. It was exactly like the first time I discovered her infidelity. I had fallen apart, weeping and tearing at my own hair, while she watched me with the detached curiosity of someone observing a bug on the pavement. She had crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Stop throwing a tantrum, Cole. Making a scene isn’t going to end well for you.” I hadn’t believed her. I had cornered her, begging, demanding she cut ties with the other man. Instead, Betty simply packed a bag, took her lover to the Amalfi Coast, and didn’t come home for three months. Her family, irritated by my “disruption,” instantly froze my credit cards and cut my allowance. The friends I thought I had made in their circle stopped returning my calls. Even the staff began to look right through me, openly smirking at my pathetic isolation. In the end, I was the one who had to crawl back, begging her to return. She hadn’t lifted a finger, yet she had won a total, crushing victory. That was why, today, she felt invincible. “You’ve gotten too comfortable playing house, Cole,” she sneered, closing the distance between us until I could smell the expensive gin on her breath. It made the blood drain from my face. “You forget exactly what you are.” “You should be on your knees thanking me,” she whispered venomously. “If it wasn’t for me, my mother would never have paid for your mother’s hospital bills. She would have died in the gutter, instead of getting eight extra years of life.” The words hit me like a physical blow. My knees gave out, and I sank into the velvet armchair. The baby was thrust back into my arms. Satisfied that she had put me back in my place, Betty reached out and affectionately patted my pale cheek. “As long as you know your place and stay quiet,” she murmured, a wicked smile playing on her lips, “you’ll always be the master of this house.” With that, she turned, looped her arm around the waist of her newest acquisition—a twenty-something aspiring model named Tristan—and swaggered right into our master bedroom. The head housekeeper, Maria, tentatively stepped forward, wringing her hands. “Mr. Cole, please… why provoke her? She gives you whatever money you need. Isn’t that enough? After all, you only married into this family because…” She stopped, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, unable to finish the sentence. But I knew exactly what she meant. I was a charity case. A husband bought and paid for. When I was thirteen, my father left us for another woman, throwing my mother and me out onto the street in the middle of a torrential downpour. We had nothing. My mother was critically ill, her liver failing, teetering on the edge of death. I was reduced to kneeling on the pavement in the wealthiest district of the city, holding a cardboard sign, begging for change. That was when Betty appeared. She stepped out of a black town car like an angel bathed in halogen streetlights. She brought us home. She used to ruffle my hair, protective and fierce, like an older sister. But as I grew older, things twisted. Her mother, Constance, was obsessed with high-society astrologers. One of them read my birth chart and declared that my “grounding energy” was the only thing that could tame Betty’s chaotic, destructive nature. Constance wrote a massive check, chased away the man Betty actually loved, and practically forced her to marry me. From the moment the ring slipped onto my finger, the way Betty looked at me changed forever. I became the enemy. The parasite. The lovers became a revolving door, and no matter how much I shattered, no matter how much I screamed, Betty remained untouched. “Isn’t this what you begged for?” she would mock. “You sold your soul for a paycheck. Don’t act like you have any pride left.” She knew I agreed to the marriage because her mother offered me a million dollars. What she didn’t care to know was that every single cent of that money went straight to the hospital for my mother’s liver transplant. In the end, her body rejected the organ. She died anyway. Perhaps this was God’s way of punishing me for my greed. I had sold myself to save her, and now I was left behind—a ghost haunting a mansion, neither fully alive nor allowed to die. 2 Maybe there really is a telepathic link between a father and his child. Without any warning, Harper began to wail. Despite all my efforts—bouncing, shushing, rocking—her cries only grew more frantic, piercing the suffocating silence of the house. Heavy, impatient footsteps stomped down the grand staircase. Tristan appeared, wrapped in nothing but my monogrammed bathrobe, glaring at me with unfiltered disgust. “Do you really hate seeing me happy that much, man?” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “Pinching the baby just to make her cry and ruin our mood? I mean, I get that you hate me, but that’s your own flesh and blood. That’s sick.” I froze. A wave of profound, violating humiliation crashed over me. For the ten months Betty was pregnant, I was the one cooking her meals, tracking her vitals, and ensuring she took every vitamin. Since Harper was born, she hadn’t left my sight for more than an hour. No one in this godforsaken world loved that little girl more than I did. I didn’t have the energy to engage with Tristan’s manufactured drama. I held Harper tighter to my chest and turned to walk toward the nursery. But Tristan lunged forward, his hands aggressively grabbing at the bundle in my arms. “You don’t even deserve to be a father!” he spat. His movements were rough. Harper let out a terrifying, jagged shriek. My heart violently seized in my chest, a physical pain so sharp I couldn’t breathe. The blood roared in my ears. Acting purely on instinct, I shoved Tristan hard in the chest. He let out an exaggerated yelp and tumbled backward onto the marble floor. “Cole! What the hell are you doing! Tristan is sick!” Betty came storming down the stairs, a vision of absolute fury. She immediately threw herself between me and a perfectly fine, though pale-looking, Tristan. Tristan began to cough dramatically, looking up at her with wide, wounded eyes. “Betty, the baby wouldn’t stop crying… I just wanted to help him. But he just attacked me. I don’t know what I did wrong. It feels like… like everything I do is wrong to him.” His voice trembled with practiced vulnerability. Betty didn’t even look at me. She didn’t ask for an explanation. Her face darkened into a mask of pure rage as she marched up to me and grabbed for Harper. I swallowed the agony clawing at my throat. “Just… be careful. Don’t hurt her. I’ll give her to you.” Over the raspy, exhausted cries of my daughter, Betty pulled a wad of cash from her pocket and threw it at my chest. The bills fluttered to the floor. “Go to the bakery downtown. Get a cake. Consider it your apology to Tristan.” Harper’s tiny hands flailed in the air, reaching toward me, as if begging me not to leave her in the arms of strangers. Betty ignored my bloodshot eyes and barked, “Move! Now!” Tristan, now holding my daughter, smirked at me over Betty’s shoulder. He looked like a conqueror holding up his spoils. “Take your time, man. I’ll take great care of the baby for you.” Harper’s helpless cries drilled into my temples like a physical spike. I looked at Tristan, my heart bleeding out onto the floor. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Fighting the dizziness threatening to drop me, I turned and practically ran out the door. I pushed the car to its limit, tearing through the streets to the bakery. I bought the cake and raced back, the whole trip taking less than thirty minutes. The moment I pushed the heavy oak front doors open, a heavy, dead silence greeted me. My stomach plummeted. I dropped the cake box and sprinted toward the nursery, my legs clumsy with panic. Tristan was just walking out. When he saw me, a flash of genuine guilt crossed his face, but he quickly masked it with a bright, plastic smile. He bent down, picked up the dropped cake box, and called out toward the sweeping staircase. “Babe! He’s back with the cake!” I ignored him, rushing to the crib. Harper was lying perfectly still, her eyes closed. I let out a shaky breath of relief. But a second later, the relief evaporated. Her skin was flushed an unnatural red. Her chest was barely moving. She looked incredibly uncomfortable, yet she wasn’t waking up. Panic seized my throat. I gently shook her shoulders. I called her name. I tapped her feet. Nothing. She didn’t make a sound. 3 Despair fell over me like a suffocating, leaden net. “Harper!” My scream tore through the silence of the mansion, raw and primal. I bolted out of the nursery like a cornered animal. I tackled Tristan to the floor, my hands immediately finding his throat. “What did you do to my daughter?!” I roared, my vision going red. “What did you do?!” Tristan’s face turned purple, his eyes bulging, but a sick, malicious glint remained in them. “The little brat… wouldn’t shut up,” he choked out. “Just gave her… a little melatonin… some sleeping drops…” The world went pitch black. The roaring in my ears sounded like the shrieking of demons. The pressure in my hands intensified infinitely. Tristan’s desperate gasps began to fade out. Suddenly, a massive force slammed into my back, ripping me away from him. Betty threw the heavy brass table lamp she had used to hit me aside. She dropped to her knees, frantically pulling Tristan into her arms, screaming at me. “Are you insane?! You almost killed him!” I pushed myself up off the floor, blood dripping down the back of my neck. Tears streamed down my face as I screamed until my vocal cords tore. “He deserves to die! He drugged Harper! He gave an infant sleeping pills! He tried to kill her!” Betty froze. A flicker of genuine terror crossed her eyes, and she scrambled to get up and run to the nursery. But Tristan weakly grabbed the hem of her silk shirt. “I just gave her a tiny, tiny drop,” he wheezed, panic bleeding into his voice. “I swear, I asked my holistic doctor, he said it was completely natural, completely fine! He’s just using this as an excuse to hurt me!” He looked at me, the very real fear of death still trembling in his limbs. “If he hates me this much, I’ll just leave! But I don’t deserve to be murdered!” He descended into a fit of violent coughing, his body shaking like a fragile leaf in a storm. Betty stared down at the dark, bruised handprints blooming around Tristan’s throat. The silence stretched out for an agonizing five seconds. Then, she stood up, her eyes hard and empty as they locked onto mine. “Get over here and apologize to him.” I stared at her. The sheer absurdity of the demand sent a jagged, tearing pain straight through my chest, slicing me open from collarbone to stomach. “She is your daughter,” I whispered, the betrayal suffocating me. “Is her life really worth less than the ego of the man you’re screwing?” Betty looked away. She couldn’t meet my swollen, tear-filled eyes. “All I know is that you just tried to commit murder in my house,” she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. “Apologize. Now.” Waves of dizziness washed over me. I turned my back on her, walked into the nursery, and carefully scooped Harper’s limp body into my arms. Betty didn’t try to stop me as I walked toward the front door, but her voice chased me down the hall, dripping with venom. “If you walk out that door, Cole, don’t you ever come back!” She said it the way one might shoo away a stray dog lingering by the trash cans. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered except my daughter. When I finally reached the ER, they pumped Harper’s stomach. She was going to be fine, but the attending pediatrician looked at me with a mixture of disgust and concern. “Who gives an infant adult sleep aids?” the doctor hissed, her clipboard pressed tightly to her chest. “This is beyond negligence. People lose custody for less than this. You need to be far more careful.” The reprimand felt like acid on my skin. I lowered my head, overwhelmed by shame and a crushing, protective heartbreak. I didn’t go back to the mansion that night. I would never go back. I refused to let Harper grow up in that toxic, soulless snake pit. The next morning, I returned to the estate alone. Betty wasn’t pacing the floors worrying about her baby. Instead, the house was filled with people. She had invited her inner circle over for an impromptu brunch to celebrate Tristan’s birthday. I didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. I walked straight up the stairs, pulled out a suitcase, and began indiscriminately shoving my clothes and documents into it. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Betty yanked me around, her eyes flashing with irritation. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing this early in the morning? Where is the baby?” I ripped my arm out of her grip. “You are never touching her again.” Before she could explode, I looked her dead in the eye and delivered the blow. “I’m done, Betty. I want a divorce.” 4 The bedroom fell into a deathly silence. Some of the guests had wandered up to the doorway to watch the drama unfold. When Betty finally processed my words, she looked at me like I was delusional. “Are you really going to drag this out?” she snapped. “Why can’t you just let things be?” The peanut gallery behind her immediately chimed in. “Come on, man. It’s Tristan’s birthday. Don’t ruin the vibe with this dramatic nonsense.” “You guys just had a baby. You need to take responsibility. You can’t just break up a family over some petty jealousy.” “Exactly. Why air your dirty laundry? Just make peace and get over it.” Voice after voice piled onto me, twisting the narrative until I was the villain. I knew how they saw me. Ever since I signed that prenup and moved into her house, I was the joke of their socialite circle. Gold-digger. Charity case. The help. They had called me every name in the book behind my back, and sometimes right to my face. But I was no longer the broken, desperate teenager they remembered. Their words couldn’t make me bleed anymore. “I am completely serious about the divorce,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Harper is a girl, which means your mother won’t care about her inheriting the family name anyway. Let’s just end this quietly.” I turned away, carefully picking up the heavy, sealed ceramic urn resting on my dresser—the ashes of my mother. I held it tight to my chest and walked toward the door. Betty frowned, stepping into my path and gripping my arm. Before she could speak, one of Tristan’s friends let out a dramatic gasp, pointing a manicured finger at the urn in my hands. “Oh my god! No wonder Tristan’s been having panic attacks all week! You’re keeping some sick, dark-energy voodoo stuff in the house to hex him!” The buzzing in my ears returned. I stared at the man, utterly bewildered. The rest of the crowd looked equally confused until Tristan pushed his way to the front, his face pale and sweating. He looked terrified. “I’ve been feeling so sick lately,” Tristan babbled, clutching his chest. “Nauseous, heart palpitations. I even hired an energy healer from LA. She told me… she told me someone brought an object tied to death into the house to drain my life force!” Tristan’s lips trembled. He looked at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “If you hate me that much, Cole, I’ll pack my bags right now. But please, don’t put a curse on me! Don’t kill me!” And with that, he dramatically dropped to his knees in front of me, sobbing, playing the victim with Oscar-worthy precision. The room erupted. The disdain from the crowd turned into righteous fury. “You’re an absolute psychopath, Cole! What kind of sick freak does that?” “Throw his ass out! He’s deranged!” I shook off Betty’s grip, my chest heaving. “Are you all completely brain-dead? This is my mother’s urn! It’s her ashes, not some Hollywood hex! You’d have to be lobotomized to believe a word coming out of his mouth!” A few people in the crowd visibly flushed, stepping back awkwardly. But someone still muttered, “Well, liars love to deflect, don’t they?” The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. I was so profoundly disgusted by these people I couldn’t bear to breathe the same air. I tried to push past them, but Betty lunged forward. In a flash of movement, she ripped the urn from my hands. Alarm bells shrieked in my brain. I reached out, my voice cracking with desperation. “Give it back! Give her back to me!” Betty shoved me back, her eyes full of profound disappointment. She looked down at the urn, trying to pry the lid off, but the seal held tight. Tristan’s friend sneered. “If you can’t open it, smash it! Let’s see what kind of sick stuff he’s hiding in there!” My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought it would break them. “Please,” I choked out, a sob finally breaking my voice. “Please. Just give the urn back.” Scattered laughter echoed around the room. “Wow, great acting. Truly.” Betty looked like she was considering just dropping it on the hardwood. But her eyes flicked up, catching the raw, naked terror and tears streaming down my face. She hesitated. For two seconds, humanity almost won. Then she straightened her spine, her voice plunging to sub-zero temperatures. “If you want this back, you will apologize to Tristan. And you will mean it. Or I will flush whatever is in here down the master bathroom toilet.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I stared at Betty, my eyes completely bloodshot, memorizing the cruel lines of her face. Without a single moment of hesitation, surrounded by the sneers and mocking whispers of the ultra-rich, I turned to Tristan and bowed at the waist, folding myself in half. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have bullied you. I shouldn’t have put my hands on you. Please, forgive me.” The room held its breath. For the thirty agonizing seconds I stayed bent over, I felt my dignity being peeled from my bones and trampled into the floorboards. Finally, Tristan let out a soft, triumphant chuckle and placed a hand on my shoulder, urging me up. “I forgive you, man. Water under the bridge.” Betty’s expression softened. She let out an exasperated sigh and held the urn out toward me. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Just don’t let it happen again, I expect—” “AH!” Tristan suddenly shrieked, clutching his chest. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, slamming directly into Betty’s outstretched arm. The urn was knocked from her hands. Time slowed down. It hit the floor with a catastrophic CRASH, shattering into a hundred jagged pieces. The pale gray dust of my mother’s remains exploded across the hardwood floor, settling over their designer shoes.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397469”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At our engagement party—an event three years in the making—I stood in the center of a gilded ballroom and let my fiancée’s personal aide humiliate me in front of New York’s entire social elite. “Mr. Beaumont, your sincerity is still lacking,” Dominic said, his voice carrying across the silent room with practiced condescension. “I think Madeline needs another three years to be sure of you.” He pulled a document from his breast pocket, sliding it across the linen tablecloth. It was a supplemental prenuptial agreement, just like the ones he’d forced on me before. This time, I didn’t reach for it. I turned my gaze toward Madeline. She was swaying slightly, a half-empty martini glass in her hand, her eyes glassy from the champagne. “Is this your doing again?” I asked quietly. Madeline laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “I didn’t tell him to write it, Harry. But honestly? I think Dominic is right. He’s only looking out for me.” She leaned into him then, letting him steady her. She looked at him with a trust she had never once afforded me. “He would never hurt me,” she whispered, almost to herself. I looked at her—really looked at her—and the indifference in her eyes was like a physical blow. I felt a strange, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. I had been the devoted fool for five years. I had waited by the phone, built her a throne, and let her walk all over me. I guess the “nice guy” really does finish last. Fine. If she didn’t want the devoted partner, she could deal with the heir to the Beaumont fortune instead. 1 “Harry! Snap out of it and sign the damn paper.” Dominic’s smirk was predatory. He spoke to me with the authority of a man who thought he owned the room. To anyone watching, you’d think I owed him a kingdom. I picked up the agreement, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it directly into his face. “Know your place,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous low. Dominic’s face turned a mottled purple, but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. I looked back at Madeline. “I waited three years for you. Three years of long-distance calls and empty promises. And this is the result? You let your glorified manservant pull this shit at our engagement?” The room was suffocatingly quiet. Every guest was leaning in, waiting for her to defend me. Instead, Madeline rolled her eyes. “Dominic has been with my family since he was ten. He spent the last three years in London helping me build my firm. He’s my right hand, Harry.” She took a sip of her drink, looking bored. “He’s just being protective. It’s just another three years. Why are you acting so dramatic?” A murmur went through the crowd. Another three years. Then another. How many years did she think I had to waste? A sharp, stabbing pain flared in my chest, radiating outward until my fingers felt numb. I could still hear her voice from three years ago, echoing in my mind. “Harry, wait for me. The second I get back, we’re getting married.” “Dominic is just difficult, I know he almost got you killed, but I’ll keep him in line while we’re abroad.” She hadn’t kept any of those promises. If anything, she had become his enabler. When I met her at JFK this morning, I had been vibrating with excitement. I ran toward her, reaching out for a hug I’d been dreaming of for a thousand days. Dominic had stepped between us, his arm a cold barrier. “The Lady of the House has a reputation to uphold now, Mr. Beaumont. We must be mindful of the press.” Then, he’d added with a sneer, “And please, if you want to touch her, you’ll need to sanitize. Travel germs, you understand.” Madeline hadn’t said a word. She’d just nodded, checking her reflection in a compact. Later, while I was in the restroom, Dominic took the keys to my car and drove her away before I even came back out. When I confronted her, Madeline just sighed. “He’s protected me since we were kids. He does it for my own good. Why are you so petty, Harry? Don’t ruin the party before it even starts.” I had swallowed my pride for the sake of the engagement. I had endured the snubs, the coldness, the arrogance. And now, this. Dominic’s anger faded into a triumphant grin. He puffed out his chest. “If you won’t sign, it just proves you don’t love her enough. You know, there’s a line of billionaires from here to Hong Kong waiting for a chance with her.” He thought he could keep pushing. He thought I would break, that I would sign that humiliating contract just to keep a scrap of her attention. I didn’t. Slap. The sound of my hand hitting his face echoed like a gunshot. “And you’re in that line too, aren’t you?” I asked, my voice ice-cold. “That’s why you’re sabotaging this.” “You hit me?” Dominic gasped. His fists clenched, his jaw working as if he wanted to tear me apart right there. Bang! Madeline slammed her glass onto the table and stood up. She reached into her clutch and pulled out a small, sleek pistol, leveling it directly at the bridge of my nose. “That’s enough!” she screamed. “Hitting Dominic is the same as hitting me! Apologize to him. Now!” The entire ballroom held its breath. 2 Dominic smirked, waiting for me to crumble. But I just looked at the barrel of the gun and started to laugh. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger. Let the world know you murdered your fiancé at your engagement party over a staff member’s bruised ego.” Madeline’s hand trembled. Slowly, she lowered the weapon. “You know Dominic only says these things because he cares about my future. But hitting him… you went too far, Harry. Apologize.” She was issuing orders like a queen, her voice cold and distant. This wasn’t the woman I’d fallen in love with. She had lost every ounce of tenderness, replaced by a ruthless, misplaced arrogance. “Apologize?” I repeated. “Have you forgotten he owes me his life?” I looked around the room, making sure everyone heard me. “Three years ago, he picked a fight with the wrong people in a club. He got you cornered in a warehouse, Madeline. I was the one who went in. I took eight stab wounds for the both of you.” I turned back to Dominic. “Or how about the time you ‘accidentally’ mixed mango nectar into my drink when you knew I was deathly allergic? I went into anaphylactic shock. My heart stopped for two minutes.” The guests began to whisper, their eyes shifting toward Dominic with newfound disgust. Those were just the big things. The daily life with him was a thousand tiny cuts—my laptop smashed, my research data “lost,” my client list leaked after he had “too much to drink.” Seeing the tide turn, Dominic immediately shifted gears. He snatched the gun from Madeline’s hand and pressed it to his own temple. “Don’t blame Miss Madeline!” he cried, his voice theatrical. “I’ll take responsibility. You want my life? Fine! I’ll give it back to you!” I saw the flicker of guilt in Madeline’s eyes vanish, replaced by frantic concern. She lunged for his hand, then turned on me, her face contorted with rage. “Are you happy now? Bringing up ancient history just to drive him to this? Do you want him dead?” My heart felt like it was turning to stone. Dominic wasn’t finished. He grabbed a steak knife from the table and drove the tip into the palm of his own hand. “There,” he hissed, blood beginning to pool on the white cloth. “We’re even, Mr. Beaumont. Now sign the paper.” Madeline let out a choked sob. She tore a strip of fabric from her designer gown and began wrapping his hand, her eyes burning as she looked at me. “Look at what you’ve become, Harry. You’re so vindictive. So irrational! Why can’t you be more like Dominic? Why can’t you think about what I need?” She looked at me like I was a monster. But I hadn’t said a word to provoke him. They were the ones holding the knife and the gun. They were the ones pushing me into a corner. Had I not given enough? I had stopped eating my favorite foods because she didn’t like the smell. I had spent my weekends cooking her favorite meals, driving through rainstorms to deliver forgotten files to her office, and spending three years in a digital relationship, surviving on five-minute phone calls. Was that not “sincere” enough? “Alright, alright, let’s calm down,” a family friend tried to interject. “It’s a celebration, let’s not do this.” Madeline wouldn’t let it go. “No. He’s out of control. Harry, apologize to Dominic right now, or don’t even think about marrying into this family. I won’t have you thinking you can overrule me.” I looked at her, and the absurdity of it all finally hit me. The woman I had worshipped was a stranger. “Talk to me!” she shouted. “He’s bleeding, Harry! Is a simple apology that hard for you?” 3 I’d heard those words before. Three years ago, when I was the one bleeding out from eight stab wounds, Madeline had screamed those exact words at Dominic. Now, she was using them as a weapon against me. When I remained silent, her face flushed with fury. She grabbed a crystal wine glass and hurled it at my head. “Apologize! Or we’re done! I’ll ruin you!” The glass shattered against my forehead. I felt the warm trail of blood begin to slide down my face, dripping off the tip of my nose. The room went dead silent. Madeline froze, the realization of what she’d done finally hitting her. She bit her lip, looking down at her hands. “Madeline,” Dominic whispered, his eyes gleaming with hidden satisfaction despite his act. “Forget it. It’s my fault. I’ll apologize to Mr. Beaumont. I shouldn’t have caused a scene.” He was a fox. He knew exactly how to play the martyr to make me look like the villain. “You’re so much more mature than he is,” Madeline murmured. She looked at me, her expression softening just a fraction, though her voice remained haughty. “Harry, you know how I am. If I’m happy, everything is fine. Just say you’re sorry so we can move on.” I knew how she was. I’d spent five years catering to her every whim just to keep her smiling. But what about me? When did my happiness ever enter the equation? I took a deep breath, wiping the blood from my eye. “It’s him or me, Madeline. Choose. Right now.” The last of her guilt vanished. Her face hardened into a mask of pure, regal disdain. “Harry Beaumont! You won’t sign, you won’t apologize, and now you’re giving me ultimatums? Fine. Go be alone then!” She grabbed Dominic’s arm and turned toward the exit. Dominic looked back over his shoulder at me. He didn’t hide the smirk this time. He had won. I watched her back as she walked away, the white train of her dress sweeping through the blood on the floor. “As of today,” I said, my voice projecting through the hall, “Madeline Victor and I are nothing. It’s over.” She paused for a second, her shoulders tensing, but she didn’t look back. The room erupted into chaos as the guests were ushered out. “Sir.” The hotel manager hurried toward me, dabbing at my forehead with a silk handkerchief while handing me a ringing phone. “Your father is on the line.” I took the phone. “I heard the engagement is off?” my father asked. His voice was deep, devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for family. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m done.” My voice was surprisingly steady. For the first time in five years, I felt at peace. “You loved that girl like your life depended on it,” my father said sternly. “Are you sure? Because the moment you walk away, I’m pulling the Beaumont infrastructure. She will lose every advantage we gave her.” He paused. “I’ll give you one night to think. If you walk away, there is no going back. You don’t chase, and you don’t crawl. Do you understand?” He hung up. I couldn’t blame him for being skeptical. I had spent years being Madeline’s shadow, letting myself be diminished so she could shine. I shook my head, clearing the lingering fog of her perfume. I told the manager to keep the kitchen open. I sat down at one of the empty tables and invited the staff to join me. If the food was paid for, someone should enjoy it. A few hours later, the doors swung open. Madeline’s father, Arthur Victor, rushed in, still wearing his hospital wristband and a thin patient’s gown under his coat. I thought he’d come to apologize for his daughter. I was wrong. “Harry! Have you lost your mind?” he screamed before he even reached the table. “Three years! You waited three years, what’s another three? Is my daughter not worth the wait?” I took a slow sip of my scotch. “Is that really what you think this is about, Arthur?” 4 “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Arthur barked. “Everyone in this city knows what’s going on,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips. “Except, apparently, the Victors.” The hotel manager, who was sitting nearby, chimed in. “That Dominic is a glorified assistant. How does he get off barking orders at a Beaumont?” The waitstaff nodded in agreement. “Miss Victor protects him like he’s the one wearing the ring,” one of the servers muttered. “Three years and another three? She’s playing him for a fool.” “Everything is ‘for her own good’ when Dominic says it, but God forbid Harry asks for a shred of respect.” Arthur’s face turned bright red. He looked at the staff, then back at me, his lip curling. “Harry! I am your future father-in-law! You’re going to let these servants talk to me like this?” He slammed his hand on the table. “So what if there was a little drama? You’re going to throw away a five-year relationship over a bruised ego? You’re being incredibly small-minded. You’re embarrassing us.” Like father, like daughter. The arrogance was genetic. “Did you ever consider my embarrassment?” I asked. “What embarrassment? You get to marry my daughter! Isn’t that enough? If you loved her, if you were actually sincere, you’d wait ten years if she asked.” Arthur huffed, straightening his coat. “I’m setting up a press conference for tomorrow morning. You’re going to apologize. You’ll say you had too much to drink and the stress got to you.” He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Don’t let the ‘Mr. Beaumont’ talk go to your head. You’re only a prince because we allow you to be in our circle.” Over the last three years, as the Victor firm grew—largely due to my family’s silent backing—Arthur had started to believe his own hype. He truly thought they had built their empire on their own. “Show him out,” I said, not even looking at him. Arthur sputtered, threatening me with everything from lawsuits to social exile, but I ignored him. My security team physically removed him from the premises. I had planned to stay at the hotel, but then a text came through from Madeline. I’m sorry. I messed up. Come home. Let’s talk, please? My heart gave a traitorous little thump. A tiny spark of hope—the last ember of five years of devotion—flickered to life. I rushed back to our shared penthouse, my mind racing with ways we could fix this. But as I stepped through the front door, the apartment was quiet, save for a low, muffled voice coming from the master bedroom. “Dominic, stop… don’t…” I froze. I crept toward the door, my blood turning to ice. I peered through the crack in the doorframe. Dominic was on the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around a half-dressed Madeline. “Madeline,” he groaned, his voice thick with a hunger that made my stomach turn. “You told me you loved my body. You said I made Harry look like a boy. Touch me.” He pulled her hand down his torso. “You said you’d give me one wish. I want you. Now.” He leaned in and kissed her. Madeline made a weak, half-hearted attempt to push him away, a soft protest that died in her throat as she melted into him. I felt a sharp, agonizing pain in my chest, followed by a terrifying cold. I pulled out my phone, recorded thirty seconds of the scene, and then turned around and walked out of the apartment. The cold New York rain lashed against my face as I stood on the sidewalk. I lit a cigarette, my hands shaking, and called my father. “Dad. I’m sure. She isn’t worth it.” Maybe he heard the tremor in my voice. Maybe he knew exactly what I’d found. He didn’t ask questions. “What do you want to do?” “The Victors only exist because I built them a foundation,” I said, my voice hardening. “I want to be the one to tear it down.” My father’s response was immediate. “Consider it done.” The orders were sent out that night. Every Beaumont-backed resource, every silent partner, every line of credit—gone. Anyone who did business with the Victors was now an enemy of the Beaumonts. My father also mentioned he was sending over an associate to help me manage the transition. The next morning, Madeline woke up feeling hollow, the adrenaline of the night before replaced by a sickening sense of dread.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397468”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had been the runner-up for eternity. Second place, every single time. Then, I bound with the “Exchange System.” A flurry of digital comments—a “Live Feed” from some other dimension—flickered across my vision: [Ugh, here we go. The jealous villainess is definitely going to use the system to steal the protagonist’s SAT scores. She can’t stand being #2.] [Thank god Madison can hear the system’s dialogue! She’s totally going to play the villainess. She’ll just stop trying, enjoy her senior year, and sleep through the finals!] [Let the bitch plot all she wants. In the end, she’ll only inherit a score of zero! Meanwhile, our girl Madison will just have her parents donate a library to Harvard. Talk about a power move!] The jealous villainess? Me? But—who said I wanted Madison’s test scores? What I wanted to exchange was something far more precious to her. 1 [Congratulations, Host. You have bound with the Exchange System. You have one—and only one—opportunity to trade.] I asked internally: Can I exchange anything? Even academic rankings? [Of course. Please designate your target.] “Madison Harrison.” The moment the words left my mind, Madison, standing not far away, clenched her fists. She shot me a look that was equal parts contemptuous and amused. So. It was true. Just as the feed suggested, she could hear the “private” conversation between me and the system. Madison’s grades were always at the top of the curve. Valedictorian-to-be. I was the “Perpetual Second,” the one everyone joked about. She was born into a dynasty—wealth, pedigree, old money. My mother, on the other hand, was nothing more than the Harrisons’ live-in housekeeper. My mother would often hiss at me: “Madison is a princess. You? You’re a nobody. Don’t you dare try to outshine her.” Even when she found out Madison’s clique had locked me in a bathroom stall and tormented me for an hour, she didn’t care. “You must have done something to upset her. You were born under a bad star, Gertrude. Stop complaining and learn your place.” I used to think my mother was just desperate to keep her job at the Harrison estate. I thought her subservience was a survival tactic. Until the digital feed told me the truth: [I almost feel bad for the villainess. She’s the actual biological daughter of the Harrisons, swapped at birth by that psycho nanny. That housekeeper “mom” is actually Madison’s real mother…] [F*** that. She deserves it for being a snake! She’s trying to steal Madison’s future. Thank god Madison is ready for her. She’s going to fail on purpose so the villainess gets a big fat zero!] [Once the truth comes out after graduation, the Harrisons will be too embarrassed by their “trashy” bio-daughter to love her anyway. Madison will always be their real girl. Who cares about blood? The villainess will end up alone and miserable, exactly where she belongs.] Alone and miserable? Depressed? I don’t think so. Because Madison’s SAT scores weren’t the target. Not even close. 2 During recess, Madison sauntered over to my desk, a jagged, unkind smile on her face. “Gertrude… you’re still sitting at number two, I see. Need some help with your prep? Or is it just too hard for you?” Gertrude. My mother gave me that name because it sounded “sturdy” and “low-class,” she said. But the kids in school found a better version. They called me “Dirty Gerty.” I once begged my mother to let me change it. She just sneered. “What? You think you’re too good for the name I gave you? Your father died the day you were born—you’re lucky I gave you a name at all. Don’t get ideas above your station.” Because of that name, Madison’s friends had cornered me in the gym showers, mocking my “cheap” clothes and my “trashy” name. “You like being dirty, don’t you, Gerty? Let’s see if we can make you look the part.” Madison’s smile back then was exactly the same as it was now. I lowered my eyes, avoiding the trap of her gaze. “No thanks, Madison. Your time is far too valuable. You should focus on your own studies.” “Aww, look at you, Gertrude. So thoughtful.” Madison let out a knowing chuckle. She clearly thought I was encouraging her to study so that her “stolen” score would be higher. She was more than happy to play along with what she thought was my downfall. “Well, just so you know, I won’t be in school starting tomorrow. The pace here is too slow. My parents hired five Ivy League tutors to do one-on-one sessions with me. By the time the finals hit, the gap between us is going to be a canyon.” She beamed with triumph. The feed exploded in praise: [Madison is a genius! Tricking the villainess into thinking she’s studying harder than ever. She’s making sure the ‘exchange’ will be worth it.] [Meanwhile, Madison is actually going to be partying and living her best life while the villainess rots in the library. I love a smart queen!] [Exactly! Madison already has a backdoor offer from Columbia anyway. Money talks. Let the villainess work herself to death for a score that won’t exist!] True to her word, Madison stopped coming to school. Following the hints from the digital feed, I tracked her down one night. I saw her at a high-end club, surrounded by guys with bleached hair and trust funds. She was flirting under neon lights, drinking expensive cocktails, and disappearing into hotel rooms with boys who didn’t know a thing about a textbook. I said nothing. We were adults now. We made our choices. I chose to wear my oversized hoodie, my thick-rimmed glasses, and spend sixteen hours a day in the library. With Madison gone, there was no one left to shove me into lockers. I had all the time in the world. But I knew the school was full of her spies. So, I played the part. I acted distracted. I made sure people saw me “slacking off.” I’d leave early, then double back to a deserted classroom in the basement to study until my eyes bled. If Madison wanted to put on a show, I’d be her best supporting actress. I was dying to see the look on her face when she realized what I had actually taken. 3 The day of the final exams arrived. I walked to the test center alone. At the gates, I saw Madison. She was surrounded by a literal entourage. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison were there, and so was… my mother, Martha. They hovered over Madison, their faces glowing with a kind of adoration that made my chest ache. Martha had never looked at me like that. For the last six months, she had barely been home. She left me in our cramped, moldy apartment on the edge of town while she moved into the Harrison mansion to cater to Madison’s every whim. She hadn’t even left me money for groceries. If I hadn’t spent the last two years working double shifts at a diner and hiding the cash, I wouldn’t have survived the winter. But it was a blessing in disguise. If Martha had been home, she would have found ways to ruin my focus. She viewed me as an enemy, terrified that I might actually achieve something. I used to wonder why. Now, seeing her fawning over Madison while ignoring me completely, the puzzle pieces didn’t just fit—they locked. [I’m actually starting to feel a little bad… Her ‘mom’ treats her like garbage and her real parents don’t even know she exists. She’s lived her whole life without a drop of love.] [Who cares? She’s the one trying to cheat! The ‘Protagonist’s Revenge’ is the best part. I want to see Madison laugh in her face!] [Wait… is it just me, or did the villainess study way too hard for someone who’s planning to steal a score? And Madison… she’s been wasted for weeks. This feels… off.] I almost laughed out loud. Finally, someone in the “audience” was paying attention. But to Madison, my smile looked like greed. “Gertrude!” Madison called my name loudly, drawing the attention of the crowd. People began to whisper and snicker. “What are you smiling about? Feeling confident about the test?” Madison skipped over to me like a graceful little deer. My expression remained flat. “I’m okay. You?” “Oh, please. I had the best tutors money can buy. And besides… you’ve never beaten me yet.” She was practically begging me to pull the trigger on the exchange. I gave her one last piece of advice: “Madison, you should really try your best today. Really give it your all.” Madison gave me a sly, knowing wink. “Oh, don’t worry. For the sake of your… advice… I’m going to do exactly what I planned.” “That’s enough—” Martha stepped between us, shielding Madison as if I were a contagious disease. “Gertrude, you pathetic thing. Don’t you dare bother Miss Madison before her big moment. Get out of here!” Mr. and Mrs. Harrison followed, looking me up and down with visible distaste for my thrift-store clothes and tired eyes. “Madison, honey, let’s go inside. Don’t let people like that get in your head.” That was it. My first official meeting with my biological parents. Thanks to the spoilers from the feed, I knew exactly how they’d treat me once the truth came out. They wouldn’t see a victim; they’d see an embarrassment. No expectations. No disappointment. I turned around and walked into the hall. Eighteen years of being suppressed, of being “Dirty Gerty,” was about to end. This time, I was playing for keeps. 4 Inside the hall, I was a machine. When the final bell rang, I capped my pen with the precision of a soldier sheathing a blade. The digital feed kept me updated on Madison’s “performance.” [Madison is so iconic! She literally fell asleep five minutes in. She’s drooling on the scan-tron! I’m dying!] [I can’t wait for the reveal! The villainess thinks she’s getting a 1600, but she’s getting a big fat zero!] [Uh… guys? The villainess just finished the essay section three pages long. She doesn’t look like she’s waiting for a handout…] Madison hadn’t listened. She had gambled her entire academic future on a trick. Too bad I wasn’t interested in her grades. A few weeks later, the school held a “Score Reveal” event. The principal wanted to celebrate the top tier of the graduating class. Madison was the first to announce her estimated score: “1580!” The room gasped. “Incredible! Your practice tests were never that high!” the counselor exclaimed. Madison glanced at me, her lip curling in a smug grin. “I just had a really good day. Everything just… clicked.” Then, she turned the spotlight on me. “And what about our Perpetual Second Place? What’s your estimate, Gertrude?” “Around the same,” I said quietly. Madison burst into a laugh that was sharp enough to cut. “The same? You? You’ve never touched my heels in three years, and suddenly you think you hit a 1580?” I nodded. “Yes.” Madison didn’t believe a word of it. To her, this was just me setting the stage for the “exchange” she thought had already happened. She looked at me with mock sweetness. “Well, then. It looks like the Valedictorian is in this room. I’ll make sure my father invites the local press for the official results day. We should do a live stream. You don’t mind, do you, Gertrude?” Mind? It was exactly what I wanted. Especially since I knew that the day the scores were released was the same day my “mother,” Martha, planned to “reveal” the truth about our birth to extort the Harrisons. 5 The day arrived. The classroom was packed. Students, teachers, parents, and several local reporters were squeezed into the room. Madison had spent the week hyping up the “Battle for Valedictorian,” ensuring a massive audience. The feed was ecstatic: [Madison’s Columbia offer is already signed. She’s the star no matter what!] [The villainess is going down. The reporters are here to document her total humiliation!] [Even when the truth comes out, she’ll be the ‘loser’ daughter. Madison will always be the favorite!] One by one, students sat at the computers to log into the portal. Shouts of joy and groans of disappointment filled the air. “1350! Not bad!” “Dammit, 1100. My math section killed me.” “1490!” The tension ratcheted up as the cameras turned toward Madison and me. “We heard there are two students expecting near-perfect scores,” a reporter said, mic in hand. “Are you ready?” Madison gave me a predatory look and typed in her ID with a flourish. When the screen loaded, the room went silent. Score: 0 “Zero? How is that possible? Madison Harrison has been top of her class for years. Is the system glitched?” “Maybe it’s a security hold?” Amidst the confusion, Madison remained eerily calm. She looked at me, a twisted smile on her face. “You really are heartless, aren’t you, Gertrude? I knew you’d take my score, but I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to give me a zero.” The room buzzed with confusion. “Madison, what are you talking about?” Madison stood up, her voice clear and commanding. “This might sound crazy, but I’m telling the truth. Months ago, I found out Gertrude was using a… let’s call it a ‘trick’ to swap our fates. She was jealous of me. She wanted my life. She wanted my score.” She pointed a finger at me. “She told everyone she got a high score to cover her tracks. But the truth is, this zero isn’t mine. It’s hers. She swapped them, not knowing I had already decided to fail on purpose to catch her in the act!” The room exploded. Cameras flashed. The live stream comments were flying too fast to read. I stood up slowly, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Madison, failing is one thing. But making up a fairy tale to cover for it? That’s just sad.” Madison’s eyes flashed with rage. “You know exactly what you did!” “Do I?” My voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise. “Because I’m pretty sure I saw you at The Nocturne every night for the last month, drinking and partying with guys who’ve never seen the inside of a library. Are you sure you didn’t just… forget to study?” The silence that followed was deafening. Madison’s face went pale, then a furious red. “I was out celebrating because I knew I didn’t need to work for a score you were just going to steal anyway!” She threw her head back. “And why would I lie? I’m a Harrison. I’ve already been accepted into the elite circles. I have a recommendation from the Dean of Admissions at Columbia. I don’t need a test score.” The door to the classroom swung open. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison walked in, followed closely by a smug-looking Martha. Mr. Harrison, looking every bit the billionaire, spoke up. “She’s right. We’ve already secured Madison’s future. Several top-tier universities are practically begging for her. We’ve already committed to a new athletic wing at Columbia. Madison is going, regardless of this… anomaly.” The feed went wild: [The Harrisons are so loyal! They’re literally buying her way in!] [That’s real power. The villainess can’t touch that.] [Poor Gertrude… she really did get a zero for nothing.] Madison smirked, leaning in. “Well, Gertrude? Show us. Log in. If your score is also a zero, it proves everything I said is true.” Every eye in the room was on me. Some were curious, some pitying, most were just waiting for the kill. “Fine,” I said with a small smile. “Let’s check.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397467”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Caitlin and I had been a “we” for eight years. Three days before we were supposed to say “I do,” I found a hidden folder on her laptop. It contained over ten thousand photos of the same man. I didn’t confront her. Instead, I quietly booked a one-way ticket out of the country for the morning of our wedding. I watched her spend those final seventy-two hours performing the role of the blushing bride, all while I prepared my disappearance. The day of the wedding, the groom went missing. And that was the day she finally lost her mind. … “Mr. Henderson, does that opening at the London branch still exist? I’ve thought about it. I want in.” My boss’s voice crackled through the line, sounding immensely relieved. “Really? That’s fantastic news, Miles! I’ll get your paperwork submitted immediately. I’ve always said a man with your talent belongs on the global stage, but I heard you were getting married…” “It’s off,” I said, my voice catching slightly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not happening.” A bitter smile ghosted across my lips, my hand trembling as I gripped the phone. Before he could ask anything else, I hung up. I turned back to the glowing screen of Caitlin’s laptop. Ten thousand photos. A digital shrine to a man who wasn’t me. We had started at the same architectural firm right after graduation, working in different departments. Tonight, she was at a bachelorette party her bridesmaids had thrown for her. Her phone was off. My director had called me, frantic for a file she’d been working on, so I’d opened her laptop for the first time in nearly a decade. And there he was. Eight years of memories hit me like a physical blow. Caitlin wasn’t like other women. In all the time we’d been together, she’d never posted a photo of us. Not on Instagram, not on Facebook. No digital footprint of our life together. No matter how much I’d swallowed my pride and asked her to share just one moment of us with the world, she’d always dismiss it. “We see each other every day, Miles,” she’d say. “Why do we need to prove it to strangers?” I realized then that it wasn’t that she didn’t believe in “proving it.” It was just that I wasn’t the one worth proving. For eight years, I had built a cathedral of excuses for her indifference. I used to stay late at the office, hoping she’d call to ask when I was coming home. I’d wait until two in the morning, only to walk through the door and find her sleeping back turned toward me. My own persistence felt like a punchline to a joke I wasn’t in on. I remembered something her maid of honor, Sophie, had let slip when we announced the engagement. “Wow, Caitlin. I really thought you were going to be the martyr for Beck forever. You’re actually doing it? This isn’t just… you know, a spite thing?” At the time, I hadn’t noticed the way Caitlin’s eyes darted away, or the way her posture crumbled for a split second. I had just puffed out my chest and said, “It’s about love, Sophie.” I didn’t have the heart to say those words now. I took a shaky breath and closed the laptop. I opened my phone to text her that it was over, but then I saw our message thread. She hadn’t even replied to the photo of the tuxedo I’d sent her twenty-four hours ago. I clicked on her Instagram. Her profile was a void—no posts, a black profile picture. But her bio had changed to a single word. Waiting. I sank onto the sofa, the air leaving my lungs. I used to think she was just reserved, a woman of few words and deep, quiet thoughts. How naive. How pathetic. I’d asked her about that “Waiting” status a dozen times, and she’d never given me an answer. Now, the answer was staring me in the face. The countdown to our wedding—three days away—was set as my live wallpaper. I watched the seconds tick down, my eyes stinging. Just as I was about to book my flight, Sophie called me. “Miles? Caitlin’s trashed. You need to come get her. I’ll send you the address.” In the background, I heard Caitlin’s voice, slurred and raw, calling out a name. Beck. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. Sophie hung up immediately, clearly trying to hide the sound. I shook myself, trying to numb the sensation. I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. On the console table by the entrance, I saw the matching leather keychains I’d had custom-made for us—embossed with the coordinates of where we first met. Every “romance guide” online said women loved meaningful gifts like that. She’d called it “juvenile” and never put it on her keys. I picked hers up and dropped it into the trash can. Then I saw the “Mr. and Mrs.” mugs sitting unopened under the coffee table. They felt like tiny porcelain monuments to my own delusion. A wave of cold, sharp clarity washed over me. I grabbed a trash bag and began sweeping everything “couple-y” into it. Once the house was scrubbed of my sentimentality, I caught a cab to the bar Sophie had mentioned. As I reached the door of the private lounge, a burst of laughter drifted out. “So, Beck’s back in town today? Does he know Caitlin’s getting married in three days? Talk about bad timing.” I leaned against the doorframe, forced a smile onto my face, and pushed it open. The room went dead silent. The atmosphere turned curdled and awkward. There she was—the woman I was supposed to marry in seventy-two hours—leaning her head with soft, drunken vulnerability on the shoulder of another man. The man from the photos. Beck. Sophie looked panicked. She tried to pull Caitlin away from him, but Caitlin was too far gone. She swiped Sophie’s hand away. “Stop it! Leave me alone!” I had never seen her this drunk. Sophie whispered urgently in her ear, “Miles is here! Caitlin, wake up! You’re getting married…” A few others jumped in, finally prying her hand off Beck’s arm. She slumped back into the velvet sofa, her face flushed crimson. Sophie rushed over to me, her voice a frantic whisper. “This is Beck, an old high school friend. He’s been living in London since sophomore year of college. He just landed today and surprised us. Caitlin just had one too many… don’t read into it.” A year ago, I would have lost it. I would have demanded to know why they invited him, why they were letting this happen. But now? I just gave a hollow, easy smile. Beck was watching me with a look of bored curiosity. When Sophie finally stammered out the word “fiancé,” Caitlin, who had been silent, suddenly snapped: “He’s a friend!” My hands balled into fists inside my pockets. My fingernails bit into my palms so hard it drew blood. The room turned even colder. This wasn’t the first time she’d denied me. She’d refused to post us, refused to let us walk into the office together, refused to even invite our extended families to the “small ceremony” she insisted on. I’d known the truth for a long time; I was just trying to win a bet I’d placed eight years ago. I’d bet my life that I could make her love me. I lost. “Hey,” I said, nodding at Beck, my voice steady. “I’m Miles, Caitlin’s ‘friend.’ You look a lot more mature than you do in your old photos.” The silence in the room became absolute. People traded horrified glances. Beck didn’t seem bothered. He smirked, tucked an unlit cigarette behind his ear, and reached for the fruit platter on the table. My pulse spiked. Caitlin had always forbidden me from smoking. As his hand moved toward the bowl, Caitlin suddenly sat bolt upright, her eyes wide. “Beck, no! You’re allergic to mangoes!” Beck’s hand froze. He looked at her, a slow, amused grin spreading across his face. “You still remember that? You idiot, these are watermelon slices. You’re wasted.” Something inside me shattered. The shards felt like they were lacerating my lungs. It wasn’t that she had a bad memory. She just didn’t care about mine. For eight years, I had reminded her that I was deathly allergic to shellfish and ragweed. Yet, her first choice for every anniversary was a seafood grill. She insisted on fresh lilies in the house every spring. I’d gone from being angry to being compliant, carrying an EpiPen and Benadryl everywhere, telling myself she was just “overwhelmed with work.” But here she was, in a drunken stupor, remembering a high school boyfriend’s fruit allergy. I stepped forward, my face a mask of indifference, and hoisted her up from the sofa. As I led her out to the street, Beck followed us. He stood on the sidewalk, his eyes twinkling with a mix of warmth for her and provocation for me. “Caitlin’s a light sleeper when she’s had this much,” he said, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “And she’s sensitive to the chemicals in Advil. Make her some honey water—make sure it’s not hotter than 140 degrees, or she’ll complain it’s burnt. If she kicks the covers off tonight, put them back immediately, or she’ll have a fever by morning.” Things Caitlin had never told me. I ground my teeth, said nothing, and opened the car door. “Wait,” Beck said, pulling out his phone. “Let me get your number. In case she’s feeling rough in the morning, you can check in with me. I know her rhythm better than anyone.” I looked into his squinted, arrogant eyes and nodded. We swapped contacts. The moment the notification popped up, I saw his wallpaper. It was a photo of him and Caitlin from a decade ago—young, raw, their fingers intertwined with a grip that looked like it would never let go. I got into the car and closed the door. As we pulled away, a single tear tracked down my face. People always talked about the power of a “first love,” and I’d always scoffed at it. I believed that consistency and devotion would always win. I was wrong. Caitlin’s phone buzzed in her purse. It was a text from Beck: Did you make it home safe, Moon? I unlocked her phone—her password was still the date they’d met, I realized now—and saw a chat with her best friend. The wedding is my last move. If he doesn’t come back for me after this, I’m finally done. Post the announcement in the alumni group. Make sure he sees it. My finger hovered over the screen. I locked the phone and stared out the window. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like the oxygen in the car had turned into lead. So that was it. The sudden proposal three weeks ago, the rush to have a “simple” ceremony, the refusal to let me buy her a real diamond because it was “too much trouble.” I thought I had finally earned her heart. In reality, I was just the bait. The last flicker of love I had for her went out like a candle in a storm. If I was leaving, then whatever happened between them was no longer my concern. When we got home, she had sobered up enough to stumble into the bathroom to wash her face. I made the honey water, exactly 140 degrees. I wanted these last three days to be a clean break—no regrets, no “what ifs.” As I sat on the sofa, Mr. Henderson called to discuss my handover. When I hung up, Caitlin was standing in the doorway, drying her hair with a towel. Her voice was sharp. “Handover? Where are you going?” I handed her the mug. “Just a business trip,” I said quietly. She didn’t push. She didn’t care enough to. She took a sip of the water and her brow furrowed. She slammed the mug down on the table. “Who taught you to make it like this? Don’t look up ‘hangover cures’ on TikTok, Miles. It doesn’t work for everyone.” She turned and marched into the bedroom. I looked at the mug. Even when I did exactly what her “ghost” wanted, I was still the wrong man. The next day was supposed to be our wedding photoshoot. She woke up as if nothing had happened, her usual cold self. But now that I’d seen her look at Beck, I knew “cold” wasn’t her nature. It was just her treatment of me. As we were about to head out, she checked her phone. “Let’s change the location,” she said. “Not the park. Let’s go to the old high school campus. I saw a trend online—it looks more ‘authentic’.” My hand stopped as I was clearing the breakfast plates. “Sure. Whatever you want.” I knew why she changed it. Beck had posted a photo of the campus gates that morning, saying he was visiting his old stomping grounds. I didn’t call her out. I didn’t want to spend my final thirty-six hours in this country arguing. I wanted to leave with some dignity. I didn’t even pack my tuxedo. She never noticed.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397466”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Nine months pregnant, and I was bleeding out on a cold rooftop. Frank, a disgruntled ex-employee who blamed my husband for his firing, held a serrated hunting knife to my throat. He’d already stabbed me a dozen times. My white maternity dress was a heavy, sodden mess of crimson. My husband, Blake, was the captain of the city’s elite Search and Rescue team. Right now, he was mobilizing every unit he had—not to find me, but to stop his “eternal flame,” Mia, from setting fire to her apartment in a “depressive episode.” In my past life, I had begged him to come. I had screamed into the phone, sobbing for the life of our unborn child. He had abandoned Mia to save me. We survived, but Mia had followed through, turning her apartment into an inferno and herself into ashes. Blake never blamed me out loud. He played the part of the doting husband, even booking a luxury VIP birthing suite for me. But on the day I went into labor, he didn’t bring flowers. He brought zip-ties. He bound me to the delivery bed, his eyes wild with a cold, terrifying light. “You and Frank planned that rooftop stunt together, didn’t you? Those stabs were shallow. You were never going to die,” he hissed, his voice trembling with years of suppressed rage. “Since you love being a victim so much, let me help you feel what Mia felt.” Then, he set the room on fire. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on that rooftop. The air was biting, and the smell of my own blood was metallic and sharp. This time, I decided to let him go to her. … The fifth time the knife sank into my side, the pain was a white-hot flash that blurred my vision. Frank’s grip was like iron, the blade pressing into the soft skin of my neck. “Call Blake,” he growled, his voice gravelly with desperation. “Now.” I hesitated, my face ghostly pale. My hand shook as I dialed the number. “Blake,” I gasped when he picked up. “Frank has me. I’m on the roof of our building. He’s stabbed me five times. Please… you have to come.” There was a long silence on the other end. I expected panic. I expected the roar of sirens. Instead, I got a voice as cold as a tomb. “Really, Joanna? You’re picking now to pull this? Mia is having a breakdown, she’s threatening to light a match, and suddenly you’re being stabbed?” “I’m not lying,” I choked out. “He’s right here—” “I kept our new address a secret for a reason,” Blake interrupted, his tone dripping with disdain. “How would Frank even find you? Next time you want to play actress to get my attention, try a lie that isn’t so easy to see through.” The words bled through the speaker. Frank’s dark, wrinkled eyes filled with a fresh wave of hatred. His hand tightened, the blade drawing a thin line of red across my throat. I wanted to scream, to break down, but I forced a haunting calm into my voice. “I’m not trying to stop you from saving Mia. If you don’t believe me, just send two of your guys. Just two. Let them check the roof.” “Enough!” Blake barked. “I don’t have time for your games. Mia’s life is actually on the line.” I heard him turn away from the phone, speaking to his dispatcher. “Mark the ‘rooftop stabbing’ call as a hoax. Disregard any further reports from that location. We are redirected to the South Side fire threat.” The line went dead. A suffocating despair washed over me. I knew Blake was cold, but I hadn’t realized he was capable of this level of cruelty. In my last life, I had called him dozens of times. I had pleaded for the baby’s sake. He had come, eventually, but he had spent the rest of his life mourning Mia and hating me for being the reason she died. He had pampered me for months, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, waiting for the moment I was most vulnerable—in the delivery room—to exact his revenge. He told me Mia died alone and terrified, and it was only fair that I felt the same. He let our baby die in the smoke before the fire reached us. The memory of that heat, that betrayal, burned hotter than the wounds in my gut. Frank, seeing that Blake wasn’t coming, lost the last shred of his sanity. He let out a guttural roar and drove the knife into me again. And again. And again. Warmth spread down my legs—blood and fluid pooling on the black gravel of the roof. Just as the world began to fade, my mother-in-law, Martha, burst through the rooftop door. She saw the blood, and her knees buckled. “Frank! Stop!” she screamed. “We’re sorry! We’ll make it right! Please, she’s nine months pregnant!” Frank paused, the bloody knife trembling in his hand. He seemed to want to believe her. Martha’s hands shook as she pulled out her phone and called Blake. It went to speaker. The background was chaotic—shouting, the crackle of fire, and the faint, high-pitched sobbing of a woman. “Blake! Are you insane?” Martha screamed into the phone. “Joanna has been stabbed a dozen times! She’s dying! Get here now!” I thought he might listen to his mother. I was wrong. Blake let out a short, mocking laugh. “Mom, seriously? You’re in on the act too? I just checked the logs. Frank Russo is still in his hometown three states away. Tell Joanna to stop the theatrics. If she’s ‘dying,’ tell her to call a priest. Actually, tell her I’ve already looked into cemetery plots. I can arrange the funeral whenever she’s ready to stop holding her breath.” The sheer malice in his voice left Martha speechless. In the background, a soft, fragile voice drifted through the line. “Is Joanna upset again? Blake, don’t be mad at her… it’s natural for her to be jealous. Maybe you should go… even though I’m so scared… they say burning is the most painful way to go…” Mia. That was Mia’s voice. The “fragile” girl who knew exactly which buttons to push. “I’ll send you the photos, Blake!” Martha hissed, her voice thick with rage. There was a silence for a few seconds. He was looking at the pictures. But his heart was a stone. “Wow. She really went all out this time. Where did she find the SFX makeup artist? And the guy playing Frank? He’s a dead ringer. Tell her she missed her calling in Hollywood. I’m hanging up now. I have to take care of Mia.” The roof fell silent. Something in Blake’s dismissive tone snapped the last thread of Frank’s restraint. He lunged at me, his eyes bloodshot and screaming, and began to bury the knife into my stomach. One. Two. Three. I felt the steel tear through my skin, a cold, sickening sensation followed by a pain so intense it transcended screaming. I tried to fight, but my limbs were lead. Just as my vision began to tunnel into blackness, two police officers stormed the roof. A neighbor must have called it in. They tackled Frank, the handcuffs clicking shut over his bloody wrists. But it was too late. The blood was a river now. Before I drifted off, I heard Blake’s voice again. Martha hadn’t hung up. He was talking to Mia, his voice a low, tender caress. “Mia, I’ve wanted to leave her for years. She was just… convenient. She took care of my parents. She was a good vessel for a kid. But you? You’re my real wife. I could never love a woman who lies as much as she does. I only love you.” Every word was a fresh blade in my heart. But as the darkness took me, I didn’t feel sadness. I felt a cold, crystalline hatred. When I opened my eyes, the sterile smell of bleach and hospital-grade floor cleaner hit me. Martha was sitting by my bed, her eyes red-rimmed. She grabbed my hand the moment she saw me stir. “Joanna… honey, I am so sorry. The baby… they couldn’t save him.” I looked down at my flat stomach. I felt a hollow ache that went deeper than the stitches in my skin. I pulled my hand away from hers. “I want to be alone, Martha.” She sighed, her face etched with guilt, and slipped out of the room. I reached for my phone, needing a distraction from the void in my chest. I scrolled through a local news feed and found a live-stream clip. It was Blake. He was in Mia’s apartment. Gasoline had been splashed over the rug, but he didn’t seem to care. He was on one knee, holding a massive diamond ring, looking up at Mia with eyes full of adoration. “I’m done with Joanna,” he said to the camera, to the crowd of onlookers, to the world. “She staged a fake stabbing today just to keep me from saving the woman I love. If she’s that unstable, I need all of you to witness this: I am divorcing her. Within three months, Mia and I will be married. I’ll keep you all updated on our journey.” The crowd cheered. Mia blushed, leaning into him, wearing a ring three times the size of the one he’d given me. She didn’t look like a woman who had been seconds away from suicide. She looked like a cat who had just caught the canary. I put the phone down and tried to stand. I needed to find the doctor. At the door, I heard Martha on her phone again. She was on speaker. “I sent you the medical reports, Blake! The baby is dead. The hospital is asking about funeral arrangements for the infant. You need to get here.” Blake’s voice came back, sharper than before. “Enough, Mom! She got admitted to a Tier-1 hospital for a ‘theatric’? Is she not embarrassed? Where did she get a dead infant for a prop? Tell her if she wants to play dead so badly, she should just go through with it. I’ll pay her parents the settlement.” Martha was shaking with fury. “Blake, I am your mother! You don’t believe me?” “I believe you’ve been brainwashed by her,” he snapped. “Oh, and tell her—when the ‘baby’ is registered, use the last name ‘Fontaine.’ That’s Mia’s name. It’ll be a good lesson for Joanna about what happens when she cries wolf.” The line went dead. I walked back to my bed in silence. I didn’t expect him to show up. But an hour later, the door kicked open. Blake marched in, looking refreshed, his eyes scanning me with pure mockery. He grabbed my arm, pulling me upright. I winced as the stitches in my abdomen screamed. “Nice touch with the pale makeup,” he sneered. “Really sells the ‘near-death’ look.” I looked at him, my body trembling with a mixture of agony and pure, unadulterated loathing. “You are a monster, Blake. I told you I wasn’t lying. Why couldn’t you just look at the evidence? Why did you have to kill our son?” “Still sticking to the script?” he laughed. “Look, we’ll settle the legalities later. Right now, I have a problem. Mia is being harassed online because people think she’s a homewrecker. I want you to post a video saying you hired those ‘actors’ on the roof and that you and I have been separated for a year. Do it, or I’ll make sure you don’t get a dime in the divorce.” “I didn’t hire anyone,” I whispered. “God, you’re pathetic!” He lunged forward, his hand clamping around my throat. I couldn’t breathe. My face turned purple as he pinned me against the headboard. “I am tired of your lies, Joanna! If you want to pretend you lost a baby, let me give you a reason to bleed!” He pulled back and swung a heavy fist into my stomach—right where the surgical incisions were. I gasped, a muffled cry escaping my lips as fresh blood began to soak through my hospital gown. Blake froze. He looked at his hand, then at the very real, very dark blood spreading across the white sheets. He frowned, stepping forward to pull back my gown. He saw the thick bandages, the surgical drains, and the undeniable hollowness of my womb. The color drained from his face. “Where’s the baby? Joanna… where is he?” “He’s in the morgue, Blake,” I choked out. “Because you decided he was a prop.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397465”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Miles and I were the “it” couple of the child-free-by-choice movement. We had the high-rise condo, the freedom to fly to Tuscany on a whim, and a mutual agreement that our lives were full enough without diapers and PTA meetings. Instead, we poured all that leftover love into his younger sister, Lexi. We treated her like our own daughter. But as the holidays approached, eighteen-year-old Lexi showed up at our door with a thirty-eight-year-old man in tow. Miles and I didn’t even try to hide our disgust. We told her flat out: end it. That afternoon, I was scrolling through a local community forum—one of those anonymous “confessions” sites—when a trending post caught my eye. “Brought my boyfriend home today, and my sister-in-law literally ordered me to break up with him. Who does she think she is? Honestly, I’m over her acting like she’s the queen of the family. To me, she’s nothing but a human ATM with a pulse.” The comments were a mix of shock and skepticism. The original poster’s replies were dripping with arrogance. “My brother and his wife are DINKs. I’m the only kid in the entire family. In other words, I’m their retirement plan. They’re going to rely on me to take care of them when they’re old!” “Someday, her real estate portfolio, her two businesses, and her seven-figure savings will all be mine. So what if I take a little now to help my boyfriend start his company? I haven’t even complained about how much of MY future money they’re spending right now!” “In this house, I call the shots.” My blood boiled as I read the “ungrateful brat” comments. Then I looked closer at the details. The phrasing, the specific mention of the businesses… a cold realization settled in my gut. This wasn’t just some random teenager. This was Lexi. … I was about to dive deeper into her post history when a crash echoed from the dining room. Lexi had flipped the table. Dinner was a catastrophe—red wine soaking into the white rug, porcelain shards scattered like snow. My in-laws stood there, looking small and helpless, while Miles gripped the back of a chair, his knuckles white with suppressed rage. Lexi was in the middle of a full-blown meltdown. “Why did you kick him out? Just because you’re older doesn’t give you the right to dictate my life! You have zero say in my decisions!” “If you don’t accept him, you don’t accept me! And if that’s the case, why are you even here? This is my family’s home. Get out!” She looked at me, her eyes darting with venom. “Don’t you feel pathetic? All that fake ‘love’ you give me? You say it’s for my own good, but you just don’t want to spend the money. You’re terrified of me being happy if it costs you a dime!” Miles stepped in, his voice strained. “Lexi, enough. Stop this. Do you have any idea how much we’ve done for you? We’ve spent fifteen years giving you everything. We’re allowed to have an opinion when you’re dating a man twice your age.” “An opinion?” Lexi wrenched her arm away from him. “You’re insulting me! You’re trying to control me!” She turned her gaze back to me, her chin lifted defiantly. “And besides, why can’t I have what’s already mine? Why should I listen to an outsider and break up with the man I love?” Outsider. The word clicked into place, mirroring the post I’d just read. I couldn’t stay silent anymore. “What exactly belongs to you, Lexi? And who, specifically, is the outsider?” I’ve lived thirty-six years; I know subtext when it hits me in the face. Lexi glared at me, the air in the room turning brittle. My in-laws instinctively reached out to quiet her, but she stayed stubborn, her voice ringing out with terrifying entitlement. “First of all,” she said, ticking points off her fingers, “this house belongs to my parents, which makes it my home. Second, since it’s my home, I’m the woman of the house. Anyone who isn’t a blood relative is an outsider. Am I wrong?” She took a step toward me. “And finally, someone promised that their entire estate would go to me eventually. I’m just asking for my inheritance a little early to help my boyfriend. What’s the problem with that?” I stood frozen, the pulse in my temple thrumming. A dark, cold calm washed over me. “Lexi,” I said, my voice dangerously level. “You’re an adult now. It’s time you learned that words have consequences.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Since you’ve decided to lay your cards on the table, let me be very clear. One: I own this house. The deed is in my name. You’re the guest. Two: As long as I’m breathing, I can change my will whenever I want. As of this second, you aren’t getting a single cent of my money. Not now, and not when I’m dead.” I pointed toward the door. “Pack your things and get out of my house. Now. Or I call the police.” The room went silent for exactly three seconds. Then, Lexi burst into hysterical sobs. My in-laws rushed to her, wrapping her in their arms as if she were the victim. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” her mother cooed. “She’ll stop seeing that man, I promise! Don’t listen to your sister-in-law, Lexi, she’s just angry. You know she has a sharp tongue but a heart of gold. She’s doing this because she loves you!” “Lexi, please stop crying,” her father added, his voice breaking. “It hurts my heart to see you like this.” It was the same old routine. One tear, and she had them on a leash. She was the “miracle” baby, born when they were nearly fifty, the only girl in the family. They had spent her entire life buying her silence and her affection. Lexi caught my eye over her mother’s shoulder. The tears were still falling, but the look in her eyes was pure triumph. “I’ll forgive her,” Lexi sniffled, “but I have conditions.” “Anything,” her father promised. “Miles, tell her you’ll make it right.” “I want the new iPhone and that LV bag I showed you,” Lexi said, her voice recovering remarkably fast. “And since I’m starting college, I want my allowance bumped to fifteen hundred a month. No—two thousand.” She paused, looking at Miles. “And you have to stay out of my relationship. I’m an adult. I get to choose who I love.” “Lexi… the guy is older than I am,” Miles muttered, looking defeated. Lexi started to wail again. “See? You’re doing it again!” My in-laws turned to Miles with pleading eyes. Miles looked at me, his expression begging for a compromise. I was done. I had zero patience left for this theater. “I don’t need your forgiveness, Lexi. Do whatever you want.” I grabbed Miles’s hand, pulling him toward the door. As we reached the hallway, Lexi shouted after us. “Fine! Forget the boyfriend thing for now! But you’re taking me to buy the bag and the phone tomorrow! And the allowance starts now!” She said it with such casual certainty, as if she were ordering a coffee. Miles sighed and let go of my hand. He was softening. He had raised her, after all; she was more like a daughter to him than a sister. I didn’t stop him, but I didn’t follow. At the end of the day, she was just his sister. That night, Miles took her out and bought the phone and the bag. When we got home, I checked the forum. The thread had been updated. “So what if an outsider objects? I still get whatever I want. She really doesn’t get it. I’m a Miller. My brother and I share the same blood. She’s just a temporary companion he’s doing life with. She actually thinks she can compete with me?” There was a photo attached: a shot of a luxury dinner, a designer watch, the new phone, and the LV bag. It was her. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Some users in the comments weren’t having it. “Your brother bought those? With his wife’s money? Your brother sounds like a saint, and you sound like a nightmare.” “You keep calling her an outsider, but they’re legally married, honey.” Lexi had replied: “Who cares about marital assets? My brother makes plenty. And who cares if they’re married? She isn’t having kids. Her money has nowhere else to go but to me. Stay mad.” I couldn’t help myself. I created a burner account and commented: “Your sister-in-law isn’t that old. She has decades left. What if she changes her mind about the kids? I wouldn’t count that inheritance just yet.” Ten minutes later, she replied. “That’s not guaranteed. Honestly, she could drop dead tomorrow for all we know.” I felt a physical jolt. My hands started to shake. The sheer, unadulterated malice in those words—from the girl I had nurtured for over a decade. I had treated her like my own child. Beyond the heartbreak, there was a cold, sharp fear. And then, rage. I wanted to call Miles immediately. I wanted to shove the phone in his face and show him exactly what his “sweet little sister” really was. But I forced myself to be still. I clicked on her profile and scrolled through her past posts. Three months ago: “Heard my SIL was in the hospital today. I thought it was finally happening, but it was just a flu. What a letdown.” Four months ago: “Someone actually suggested SIL start prenatal vitamins. Please. Is she even capable of producing anything at her age?” Six months ago: “SIL just spent thirty grand on a custom bed. So disgusting. She’s clearly trying to spend down my inheritance so there’s less for me. What a bitch.” My head was spinning. It was a nightmare, but the voice was unmistakably Lexi’s. I sat in the dark, taking screenshots of every single post until my thumb ached. I met Miles when I was twenty-one. I told him then: I’m child-free. I don’t want them. He didn’t accept it at first, but eventually, he came around. He said he loved me, and a life with me was more important than a life with a nursery. We’d been married thirteen years. But not every “child-free” person stays that way. After losing my grandfather and my uncle last year, something in me had shifted. The idea of motherhood didn’t feel like a cage anymore. I hadn’t been sure—until this moment. Why should I hand over everything I’ve built to a vulture? Why shouldn’t I experience that part of life? I’m thirty-six, not dead. I stood up, walked to the bathroom, and threw every single condom we owned into the trash. At 11 PM, I walked out of the shower, drying my hair. Miles walked in with Lexi trailing behind him. He looked at me, his expression stern. “We need to talk,” he said. “Both of you were wrong today. Lauren, you’re the adult here—you shouldn’t have said those things just to hurt her. And Lexi, you’re eighteen; you need to stop acting like a toddler. I want you both to apologize. Lauren, you first.” I stopped drying my hair. I stared at him, wondering if I’d suddenly suffered a stroke and lost the ability to understand English. “I need to apologize? Because I won’t let her walk all over me in my own home?” Lexi rolled her eyes before I could even finish. “See? I told you. She’ll never do it. She hates me!” She stomped off into the guest room and slammed the door. My heart was hammering against my ribs. In the past, I would have brushed this off as her being spoiled. But with those forum posts burned into my mind, every word felt like a knife. Miles started lecturing me. “I finally got her calmed down. She promised me in the car she’d apologize to you. All you had to do was say sorry back. It wouldn’t have killed you. You know how she is.” His attitude made the last bit of warmth in my chest go cold. I looked at the man I’d spent thirteen years with and realized I didn’t recognize him. “If you love apologies so much, go give her another one. Leave me out of it.” I flipped the hairdryer back on, drowning out whatever he said next. Once he left the room, I sat on the edge of the tub. I opened my banking app and revoked Lexi’s access to my secondary card. Then I called and canceled her private piano lessons, the catering for her upcoming birthday bash, and the VIP tickets to the concert in Tokyo she’d been bragging about. I gave her those things out of love. I didn’t owe them to her. A few days later, Lexi came home screaming. She’d been turned away from her piano lesson. She kicked my bedroom door open, her face distorted. “How dare you cancel my lessons! Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was? My teacher told me the payment was declined in front of everyone!” I didn’t even look up from the TV. “You’re doing this on purpose!” she shrieked. “You’re trying to humiliate me! You don’t respect me at all!” Miles came running in, his face full of pity for her. He turned on me instantly. “What are you doing? Is this still about the other day? Lexi is at a sensitive age. You’re an adult—do you really need to be this petty with a child?” “The lessons aren’t even that expensive,” he continued. “If she wants to learn, let her learn. Reactivate the account, apologize to her, and let’s move on. This constant fighting is exhausting.” Lexi chimed in, “An apology isn’t enough. I want compensation.” “Fine, fine,” Miles said, looking at me. “Tell your sister-in-law what you want. We’ll make it happen today!” I couldn’t listen to another word. I was her sister-in-law, not her patron saint of entitlement. “If you want to ‘make it happen,’ do it yourself,” I snapped. “Stop volunteering my time and my money.” Miles pulled me aside, his voice a frantic whisper. “What is wrong with you lately? Why are you being so mean to her? I know she can be a brat, but we raised her. She’s the closest thing to a child we’ll ever have.” I looked at Lexi, who was glaring at me with smug defiance. Then I looked at Miles. I remembered all the years he’d stayed with me, accepting a child-free life. I felt a sudden flicker of guilt. Maybe he only obsessed over Lexi because he was mourning the children we never had. If we had our own, maybe he’d finally see Lexi for what she was. “If we had a child of our own,” I said quietly, “we’d have to change our lifestyle. We’d have to cut out the unnecessary expenses.” Miles looked at me, completely blank. “A child? You want to have a baby?” “I’m saying we should try. No more late nights, no more drinking. We should focus on our own family.” Lexi heard us. She charged into the room, screaming. “I don’t agree! You are not allowed to have a baby!” “You’re almost forty! You can’t even keep your pants zipped? It’s disgusting! If you actually have a kid, don’t expect me to help. If you guys die, I’m not raising it. I’ll dump it at an orphanage!” “Lexi!” Miles shouted. “That’s enough!” “Will my kid even need you?” I said, my anger finally boiling over. I stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “You hit me?” Lexi gasped, clutching her cheek. “Miles, she hit me!” Miles grabbed my arm. “Lauren! How could you lay a hand on her?” I shook him off. “No one ever taught her how to speak to people. Consider it a life lesson.” Lexi’s eyes were brimming with tears, but her voice was pure ice. “You have no right. And I’m telling you now—as long as I’m around, you aren’t having that baby. It’s either me or the kid. Choose.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397464”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Today was supposed to be the sixth time my girlfriend, Claire, met my parents. My parents and I sat in the booth of an upscale downtown bistro, waiting for four grueling hours. I’d called her dozens of times. No answer. Just the steady, rhythmic torture of the voicemail greeting. As I reached for my phone to try one last time, a notification popped up. Sebastian, Claire’s “childhood best friend,” had just posted on Instagram. The location was tagged at a boutique hotel in the suburbs. “From eighteen to eighty. Always us,” the caption read. The photo was of a woman’s bare, elegant back. On her shoulder blade sat a stark, crimson tattoo of a spider lily—a piece of art I knew by heart. A mutual friend had already commented: “The OG couple. Some things never change.” I didn’t feel the usual surge of white-hot jealousy. Instead, I felt a strange, cold clarity. I tapped the ‘like’ button and left a comment: “Make sure you’re buried together, too. That way, you won’t have to ruin anyone else’s life in the next one.” … 1 The waiter had just finished setting our appetizers on the table when Claire’s name finally flashed on my screen. I declined the call without a second thought. A second later, a text came through. “Don’t start with the jealousy again, Leo. I grew up with him. What’s wrong with wanting to be in each other’s lives until we’re eighty? People with dirty minds see dirt everywhere.” Then, another: “Sebastian had an emergency out here. I came to help him handle it. It started pouring rain, and he’s been feeling sick lately. I didn’t want anything to happen to him, so I booked a room to wait out the storm. That’s it.” The messages kept coming—justifications, deflections, insults. The one thing she didn’t mention was the dinner. The promise. The fact that my parents were sitting three feet away from me. I stopped reading. I couldn’t look at the screen anymore; I could only look at my parents, and the guilt was a heavy stone in my chest. They weren’t young anymore. They had flown halfway across the country just to meet the woman I told them I wanted to marry. And Claire hadn’t shown up. Not once. Not in six tries. They had endured her “emergencies” and “last-minute depositions” for years because they knew I loved her. But even their patience had a breaking point. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I’ve wasted your trip again.” My mother reached across the table, her eyes softening with that maternal pity that hurts worse than anger. My father, however, just set his fork down. “We aren’t going to tell you how to live your life, Leo,” he said quietly. “But we’re here for you, not for her. We’ll just enjoy the visit with our son.” My eyes stung. In the five years I’d been with Claire, she had never once accompanied me home for the holidays. She was a high-profile corporate litigator; she always said her time was “billed by the minute.” Her time was too precious for my family. But for Sebastian? For him, she’d cross the city in a heartbeat. She’d find the time for a weekend getaway. She’d find the time to miss my life. Love isn’t a mystery. It’s a choice of where you spend your minutes. I had been lying to myself for half a decade, and it only took one Instagram post for the scales to fall from my eyes. I didn’t get home until eleven after dropping my parents at their hotel. Claire was sitting on the velvet sofa, her face a mask of cold fury. The moment I stepped inside, she pounced. “Where have you been? You weren’t answering your phone. You have no right to just go dark on me.” I stood there, watching her play the victim. It was a masterful performance. “Do you even remember what today was?” I asked, my voice flat. “What was it? Just another Tuesday? Or were you planning on—” She stopped mid-sentence, the realization finally flickering in her eyes. “Oh. Right. Leo, I’m sorry. Are they still at the restaurant? Tomorrow—tomorrow I’ll make it up to them. I promise.” “Don’t bother,” I said. I walked past her toward the bedroom. I needed a shower to scrub the smell of the day off my skin. When I came out, the lights were off, and Claire had already climbed into bed. She was wearing a black silk slip, smelling of expensive perfume and something else—something masculine. “Are you still sulking?” she asked. I stayed silent, facing away from her. She reached out, her arm sliding around my waist, pulling her body flush against mine. Her breath was warm against my ear. “Leo, I’m sorry. I messed up. But Sebastian’s car was totaled. He called me in a panic. I just… I forgot everything else.” When I didn’t respond, she sighed and forced me to turn over to face her. In the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds, I saw the spider lily on her shoulder. My mind flashed back to the hotel photo, to Sebastian’s smug caption. A wave of nausea hit me. “What’s the matter?” I asked, my voice dripping with an edge I’d never used with her. “Wasn’t Sebastian enough for one night?” Claire bolted upright, her eyes flashing. “Leo! Are you serious? I explained it to you! I’ve apologized, I’ve practically begged. What else do you want from me?” She tossed her hair back, her tone shifting to that of a generous benefactor. “Fine. I was even going to take the day off tomorrow to spend it with your parents. But if you’re going to be like this…” “You don’t have to do me any favors, Claire,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “It’s over. We’re done.” The silence that followed was heavy. I grabbed my pillow and walked out, heading for the guest room. Behind me, I heard the bedroom door slam so hard the frames on the wall rattled. The next morning, I reached for my phone to call my boss and ask for the day off to take my parents sightseeing. Instead, I saw a text from my mom. “Your father and I decided to catch an earlier flight. Go to work, honey. Don’t worry about us. Come home and visit when you can.” I called her immediately, my heart sinking. “Mom? Why are you leaving so early? I was coming to get you.” “Oh, you know your father,” she said, her voice forced and bright. “He’s itching to get back to his garden and his fishing buddies. It’s fine, Leo. Really. We’re at the gate now. Talk soon.” The dial tone echoed in my ear. The shame was suffocating. My parents lived only a short flight away, but for five years, I had been an orbit around Planet Claire, rarely making the time to go home. I went straight to the office. I didn’t go to my desk; I went to my manager’s door. “Marcus, is that Austin transfer still open?” Marcus looked up, surprised. “The lead developer role? Yeah, but you turned it down three times. You said your life was here.” I leaned against the doorframe. “I changed my mind. I realized there’s nothing keeping me here but a ghost.” He smiled, satisfied, and pulled a form from his drawer. “Sign this. You’re exactly what that branch needs.” As I walked back to my desk, my phone buzzed. It was Claire. Her voice was sharp, entitled. “Leo, why didn’t you wake me up? There’s no breakfast, no coffee, and I have a huge client meeting this morning.” I listened to her list of demands—the expectations of a woman who thought I was her permanent fixture. I started to laugh, a dry, hollow sound. “Claire, I’m not your concierge. I’m not your maid. And I’m definitely not yours anymore.” “Leo, don’t you dare—” I hung up. For five years, I had curated her life. I cooked, I cleaned, I even picked out her clothes for court. I had turned myself into a supporting character in her biopic. But the moment the service stopped, she didn’t feel loss—she felt inconvenience. I had never felt more awake. Work became my sanctuary. Without the constant anxiety of Claire’s moods, I finished a week’s worth of coding in two days. But as I stepped out of the building that evening, the sky opened up. A classic Midwestern downpour. My phone rang. Claire. “You’re off work, right? I didn’t drive today. Come pick me and Sebastian up and take us back to the city.” The sheer audacity of it. She wanted me to drive through a storm to pick up the man she’d cheated with. “No,” I said, and ended the call. I took an Uber home and ordered a massive bowl of spicy ramen—the kind Claire banned from the house because she hated the smell and thought it was “low-class.” I remembered a photo Sebastian had posted months ago. Claire, in her Dior suit, sitting on a plastic stool at a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop with him, laughing. Her “standards” were always flexible for him. I was the only one she forced to follow the rules. I was halfway through a beer when the front door swung open. Claire and Sebastian marched in, soaking wet and shivering. Claire’s eyes landed on me, sitting comfortably on the couch with my “smelly” food. She looked like she wanted to set the room on fire. “Leo? Is this what ‘busy’ looks like?” she screamed. “So I missed one dinner with your parents. Big deal! It’s not like they’re dead! You’re being so incredibly petty!” 2 I didn’t want to engage. I really didn’t. But her words felt like a physical slap to my parents’ dignity. I stood up so abruptly the beer bottle on the coffee table tipped over, shattering on the hardwood. “Enough, Claire. Get out.” A shard of glass must have grazed Sebastian’s ankle. He hissed in pain, and Claire’s protective instincts—the ones I never got to see—kicked in instantly. She lunged forward and shoved me. Hard. I stumbled back, my hand landing right in the middle of the broken glass. Pain flared, sharp and hot. Blood began to pool in my palm, dark and thick. Claire froze, her anger momentarily replaced by a flicker of panic. She stepped toward me to look at the wound. As she got close, I caught the scent. Not her perfume. It was Sebastian’s cologne—that heavy, woody scent he always wore. It was all over her. I could almost see them in that hotel room, her hands on him, her whispers meant for someone else. I shoved her away with my uninjured hand. My eyes caught a faint, reddish mark on the side of her neck. Claire noticed my gaze and reflexively pulled her collar up. “It’s a bug bite. The office has been terrible lately, you know how sensitive my skin is.” Sebastian stood behind her, his eyes meeting mine with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. “Yeah,” he smirked. “Her skin is incredibly delicate.” In that moment, the hierarchy was clear. Sebastian got the truth of her. I got the lies. “Fine,” Claire snapped, trying to regain control of the room. “Stop being dramatic about a few scratches. I’ll take you to the ER.” She grabbed my injured arm, her grip tight and clinical. She wasn’t being a worried girlfriend; she was being a lawyer managing a liability. I wrenched my arm away. “Don’t touch me. You’ll kill me before we even get to the car.” “Can’t you speak like a normal person for once?” she huffed. “Do you have to be so damn bitter?” I didn’t answer. I just grabbed my jacket. Claire insisted on driving, and the moment we reached her car, Sebastian slid into the front passenger seat. He looked at me through the window, a mocking glint in his eyes. “I get motion sickness in the back,” he said. “You don’t mind, right, Leo?” I climbed into the back seat without a word. As she pulled out of the driveway, I looked around the interior of her car. It was filled with things that didn’t belong to me. A pair of high-end sneakers in the footwell. A men’s leather jacket draped over the headrest. A polaroid of the two of them tucked into the sun visor. When we first started dating, I had left a small plush keychain on her dashboard. She threw it away the next day. She told me she had “OCD about clutter” and didn’t want “other people’s junk” in her space. Apparently, Sebastian wasn’t “other people.” By the time the doctors finished cleaning and stitching my hand, it was 2:00 AM. I walked into the waiting room, but Claire was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t call her. I walked out into the rain and tried to hail a cab. But at that hour, in a storm, the apps were showing forty-minute wait times. Cold and exhausted, I finally dialed her number. Sebastian answered. He gave a low, mocking “Tsk” before I heard the phone being snatched away. “I’m going to jump in the shower,” Sebastian’s voice echoed in the background. “Hurry up.” Claire came on the line, her voice hushed. “What?” “I’m at the hospital entrance,” I said. “I can’t get a ride. Can you come back?” There was a long pause. She had genuinely forgotten I was there. “Oh. Right. Give me five minutes. I’m on my way.” Five minutes became ten. Ten became twenty. An hour passed. I stood under the hospital awning, shivering, watching the rain bounce off the pavement. I laughed at myself. I was the fool who kept expecting a different ending to the same story. Finally, a car pulled up—an actual taxi. I got in and went home. I had just sat down on the guest bed when I heard Claire’s car pull into the driveway. She walked into the house, looking irritated. “Why didn’t you wait? I told you I was coming.” I didn’t look at her. “I’m starving,” she continued, heading for the kitchen. “Make me something. And make a pot of that seafood bisque Sebastian likes. I promised I’d drop some off at his place.” The room felt like it was spinning. “Are you actually insane?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “We broke up. I’m not making you or your lover a damn thing.” Claire stopped and looked at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “What did you say? You’re breaking up with me?” “I said it yesterday. I said it today. Maybe your ears are as broken as your moral compass.” Claire started to laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound; it was condescending. “Leo, please. How many times have we done this? You’ll be at my feet in twenty-four hours, begging for a second chance because you can’t handle being alone. Try to hold out for a full day this time, okay? It might actually be impressive.” She walked into the master bedroom and slammed the door. I pulled out my phone and started searching for short-term rentals near the office. Marcus had told me the transfer wouldn’t be official for a month. I couldn’t stay here. Not for another night. I began making a list of what was mine. When we moved in, I had treated this place like a home. I’d bought the furniture, the art, the soul of the house. But looking at it now, I realized I didn’t want any of it. It was all stained. I’d take my clothes, my laptop, and my pride. That was enough. 3 When I finally emerged from the guest room the next morning, Claire was watching me with a strange, unreadable expression. I ignored her and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Suddenly, a loud shatter echoed from the living room. I walked out to find my favorite ceramic mug—the one I’d made myself in a pottery class years ago—smashed into pieces on the floor. I looked at the shards and smiled. It felt like a metaphor. I’d given that mug to Claire when I was still starry-eyed, telling her my love for her was like that clay—hand-molded and one-of-a-kind. She’d laughed at how “ugly” it was back then. “Oops,” she said, her voice devoid of regret. I didn’t argue. I didn’t even clean it up. I just grabbed my keys and walked out. Claire stared at my back, her confidence finally beginning to waver. By that afternoon, I’d signed a lease on a furnished studio. It was a five-minute walk from work. For years, I’d spent forty minutes commuting just so Claire could be closer to her firm. I’d sacrificed my sleep, my time, my energy—all for a woman who wouldn’t even wait five minutes in a car for me. I moved my things out while she was at work. It only took one large suitcase. It was startling how little of “us” was actually “me.” That evening, as I sat in my quiet, new apartment, my phone rang.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397463”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first night I moved into the Garrison estate, I woke up in a daze, my vision blurred by sleep, only to find myself staring directly into a pair of smoldering eyes. A man was looming over me, his chest bare, his expression lethal. He grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my bed?” My heart hammered against my ribs. I could barely get the words out. “I… I’m your wife.” The man stared at me, dead silent. “…” 1 He let out a sharp, cold laugh, as if I’d just told the most ridiculous joke he’d ever heard. His dark eyes narrowed, scouring my face like he was dissecting a specimen. Even in the shadows of the room, the intensity of his gaze was suffocating. He reached over and slammed his hand onto the light switch. The sudden overhead glare blinded me, and I winced, shielding my eyes. When I finally managed to look up, he was smirking, but his eyes were fixed on my collarbone. It was then I realized the top buttons of my silk pajamas had slipped loose. I gasped, crossing my arms over my chest in a panicked reflex. He let out a derisive snort. “Oh, give me a break. Don’t play the innocent now. Tell me, what kind of hustle are you running to get inside this house?” I looked at him properly for the first time. I knew who he was. This was Evelyn’s son—Nate Garrison. He was exactly as the tabloids described him: rugged, reckless, and devastatingly handsome. Dark hair fell over a sharp brow; his nose was straight, his lips thin and cruel. His eyes—a deep, stormy hazel—were framed by long lashes, the corners slightly upturned in a way that felt both flirtatious and dangerous. He wore a half-unbuttoned white shirt, revealing the hard lines of his throat and collarbone. He radiated an aura of untamed, upper-class rebellion. I frowned, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m serious. Ask your mother. Evelyn told me we were married.” A flash of genuine confusion crossed Nate’s face, followed by a dark, mocking grin. He released my wrist and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. He strode toward the door and yanked it open, his voice thundering through the hallway. “Arthur! Evelyn! Get out here and explain this right now!” I scrambled to button my shirt, my fingers trembling. I stood by the edge of the bed, feeling small and out of place, barely daring to breathe. After what felt like an eternity, Evelyn emerged from her room, wrapped in a silk robe and yawning. She looked at Nate with pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Nate, for God’s sake, it’s the middle of the night. Stop howling like a wounded animal.” Nate gestured wildly toward me, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “What is this? Explain. Now.” Evelyn didn’t even blink. “I sent you the email, Nate. I told you this was happening.” Nate’s jaw tightened. “You weren’t joking? You actually went through with it?” Evelyn offered him a triumphant, cat-like smile. “When have I ever been a woman of idle threats?” Nate ran a hand through his hair, his voice rising in desperation. “I thought it was a move to get me to come home! I didn’t think you’d actually find a…” He stopped, glancing at me as if I were a piece of furniture he hadn’t ordered. Evelyn walked over and patted Nate’s cheek. “Nate, you made a deal. I have the recording to prove it. Riley is your responsibility now. And tomorrow morning, the two of you are going to City Hall to make it official.” She turned to go back to her room, pausing at the door with a playful, sharp glint in her eyes. “Oh, and Nate? Riley is staying in your room. If I find out you’ve been anything less than a gentleman, there will be consequences.” “Mom—” Nate started to protest, but the heavy thud of her bedroom door cut him off. I stood there, a ghost in a stranger’s bedroom, watching the wreck of a man in front of me. Nate sighed, a long, ragged sound, and turned his gaze back to me. His eyes were cold again. “You,” he said flatly. “Go sleep in the guest room.” My lower lip trembled. “Evelyn said… she said I have to stay here. With you.” Nate let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “And you just do everything she says?” I gripped the hem of my shirt and nodded, looking down at my toes. The shame felt like a physical weight in my chest. “Fine,” Nate snapped. “Stay here then. Sleep in the damn bed. I’m out.” He turned to leave, but Evelyn’s voice drifted through the walls, clear as a bell: “If you walk out that door, Nate, I’m calling the manager of the track. I’ll have your entire car collection under lock and key by breakfast.” Nate froze. His shoulders slumped, and he stood there for a long time, defeated by the one person he couldn’t outrun. 2 After a chaotic hour of tension, we ended up back in the same bed. Nate was clearly seething. He lay on the far edge of the mattress, his back to me, a wall of cold muscle and silence. Eventually, his breathing leveled out into the slow rhythm of sleep, and the iron band of tension around my chest finally loosened. I lay there in the dark, my mind racing through the blur of the last few months. My mother and Evelyn had been best friends when they were young. They both married for love, but that’s where the similarities ended. Evelyn married Arthur Garrison and found a life of security and enduring affection. My mother… my mother’s “love story” shattered the year I turned five, the night the first bruise appeared. The abuse had been a slow, agonizing crawl. My mother endured it for years, even after she suffered two broken ribs. She stayed until the night my father turned his rage on me. I had tried to protect her, clinging to his leg to keep him from hitting her again, and he had backhanded me across the room. In that moment, the fragility in my mother’s eyes vanished. She pushed him back with a strength she didn’t know she had and scooped me up. We ran. We called the police. My father, Richard, was sentenced to eighteen years for domestic battery and aggravated assault. For a decade, we were happy, just the two of us. Until the cancer came. When the diagnosis hit, Evelyn stepped back into our lives. She moved my mother into the best facility in the city and covered every cent of the astronomical bills. I was drowning in debt and grief, and Evelyn became my life raft. A week ago, Evelyn had taken my hand, her eyes full of a strange, determined kind of love. “Riley, I’ve always adored you. I want you to be part of this family. Properly.” I had been stunned, but she just patted my arm. “Don’t worry. My son isn’t a monster. He’s just… lost. He needs someone grounded. Someone like you to pull him back to earth.” How could I say no? How could I refuse the woman who was literally keeping my mother alive? The room was silent now, save for the hum of the AC. I tried to shift my weight, my body aching from the stress. Nate must have felt the movement because he suddenly yanked the duvet toward him. The sudden rush of cold air hit my skin, making me shiver. The AC was cranked down to sixty degrees. I knew I’d be sick by morning if I didn’t cover up, so I reached out, gingerly trying to pull a corner of the blanket back. In a heartbeat, Nate spun around. He was over me in an instant, his arms bracing him on either side of my head, his eyes burning with accusation. “What? Can’t wait for your ‘wifely duties’ to start?” The shock paralyzed me. “I… I…” Nate’s lip curled. “You what?” “I wasn’t… I just wanted the blanket.” 3 Nate laughed, a low, husky sound that should have been beautiful but felt like a serrated blade. “Sure you did. The second you agreed to move into my bedroom, we both knew what you were after.” I didn’t know how to defend myself. I’ve always been the kind of person whose emotions leak out of their eyes before they can find the words. Tears began to blur my vision. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t have a choice!” Nate clicked his tongue, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t start crying. You’re the one who moved into a stranger’s bed.” I shook my head, a sob escaping despite my best efforts. “I… I can’t help it. It’s a reflex.” Nate stared at me, something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “If you keep crying,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly register, “I might actually give you something to cry about.” The threat hung heavy in the air. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips together, trying to force the sobs back down. My body was still trembling, and Nate’s expression shifted from irritation to something sharper, more intense. “Just… stay on your side,” he muttered, finally pushing himself off me. He flopped back down, creating a literal “no-man’s-land” in the middle of the California King. He seemed to fall asleep almost instantly, but I remained wide-eyed and terrified, my nerves frayed to the point of snapping. I didn’t drift off until the sky began to turn a bruised, pre-dawn purple. I was jolted awake by the sound of a door slamming. I blinked, seeing Nate standing by the vanity, his chest bare and his skin glowing like burnished bronze in the morning light. He was drying his damp hair with a towel, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He caught me staring. His eyes were cool, assessing. I was too sleep-deprived to hide my reaction. He was breathtaking, in a way that felt unfair. Nate’s eyes narrowed slightly. “See something you like?” I looked away immediately, my face heating up. “No. Nothing.” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Good. Keep it that way.” He disappeared into the walk-in closet and emerged minutes later wearing a crisp white tee, a varsity jacket, and relaxed-fit dark denim. It was a simple outfit, but on him, it looked like a million dollars. He walked out without a second glance. I got up and pulled on the most decent thing I owned—a simple, white linen dress. It was modest and clean, the armor I chose for the day I’d officially become a Garrison. Downstairs, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Nate was slumped on the sofa, staring at his phone with a dark scowl, while Arthur and Evelyn sat across from him, looking like they were presiding over a court-martial. Evelyn spotted me and her face instantly softened into a maternal smile. “Riley, sweetheart. You look so pale. I’ll have to get you some brighter dresses. After breakfast, you and Nate are heading to City Hall.” Nate let out a sharp, irritated sound. “Evelyn,” I said softly, “isn’t this… a bit fast?” “Fast?” Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “You two spent the night in the same bed. We need to make this legal before the rumors start.” Nate looked up, his eyes flashing. “Oh, so now we care about rumors? After you practically held a gun to my head to stay in that room?” Evelyn’s expression flipped in a heartbeat. The warmth vanished, replaced by a gaze of pure steel. “Watch your tone, Nathan.” Nate looked like he’d been slapped. He went silent, a look of utter defeat on his handsome face. I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. It was the first time I’d seen someone actually manage to handle him. But then Nate caught my eye. His gaze was icy, a silent warning that if I laughed, I’d regret it. I immediately wiped the expression from my face and stood there, waiting to be told what to do. Nate stood up, grabbing his keys. “Let’s go,” he snapped at me. “I have things to do today.” 4 I grabbed my bag and hurried after him, but Evelyn called out, “Breakfast first! What’s the rush?” Nate didn’t even slow down. He marched out the door, and I gave Evelyn a quick, apologetic smile before running to catch up. His car was a low-slung, matte black sports car that looked like it belonged on a track. I went for the back seat, knowing he didn’t want me near him, but the door wouldn’t budge. “Do I look like your Uber driver, Princess?” Nate’s voice was like a whip. “Sorry. I… I didn’t mean…” I climbed into the passenger seat, and Nate took his revenge out on the gas pedal. He tore out of the driveway, the engine roaring. The world outside became a blur of speed and noise. I felt my stomach drop; I was terrified we were going to crash. I gripped the seatbelt, my knuckles white, and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t see the way Nate was looking at me—a strange, dark smirk playing on his lips. Watching me tremble like a frightened rabbit seemed to have improved his mood. At City Hall, Nate stayed sullen. He was the picture of a man being led to his execution, but he signed every paper and followed every instruction. When it came time for the photo, the photographer looked at Nate’s stony expression and hesitated. “Sir… maybe a smile? You look like you’re being forced into this.” Nate didn’t say a word. The silence was deafening. The photographer gave a nervous laugh. “Haha, just a joke! Anyway, the bride is stunning. You’re a lucky man.” Nate looked at me then, his eyes dragging over my face with a chilling intensity. “Lucky,” he echoed, a bitter edge to his voice. “Yeah. So lucky.” Outside, the sun was bright, mocking the coldness between us. Nate headed for the car, and I stayed on the sidewalk. “Mr. Garrison… Nate. I can catch a cab from here. You don’t have to—” “Get in the car,” he said, his tone mocking. “I’m taking you somewhere.” “I don’t want to be a bother—” He arched an eyebrow. “My mother’s orders. She said I need to ‘bond’ with my new bride. So, let’s bond.” I bit my lip and got in. “Bonding,” it turned out, meant being dragged to a private racetrack where Nate and a group of his wealthy, bored friends were tearing up the asphalt. He forced me into the passenger seat for a high-speed lap. “Please,” I whispered, my face turning ashen. “I’ll wait at the finish line.” Nate grinned, a reckless, predatory light in his eyes. “No way. You’re my wife now. You go where I go.” The next few minutes were a nightmare of screeching tires and G-force. The moment the car screeched to a halt, I fumbled for the door, stumbled out, and collapsed by the side of the track, heaving. Nate leaned against the car, watching me. For a split second, I thought I saw a flash of guilt in his eyes, but it was gone before I could be sure. One of his friends, a guy with blonde hair and a mischievous grin named Logan, walked over. He looked at me, then at Nate. “Where’d you find this one? She looks like she’s about to break.” “My mother’s choice,” Nate said flatly. “The new Mrs. Garrison.” “What?” Logan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He looked back at me, then back to Nate. “Damn, man. Your mom has excellent taste. She’s gorgeous.” Nate shot him a murderous look. “If you like her so much, I’ll tell my mom to find one for you, too.” “Whoa, easy! My girl would literally skin me alive.” 5 The “bonding” session was cut short by a call from Arthur, summoning Nate to the office. Nate was clearly pissed about the interruption. He looked at me, and I quickly waved him off. “I can get home on my own. Really.” Logan watched us with a smirk. “So, you’re already at the ‘I can’t stand to be in the same car as you’ stage of the marriage? That was fast.” Nate glared at him. “Do you want to keep your teeth, Logan?” Logan raised his hands in a mock surrender. “Kidding! Just kidding.” Nate peeled out, leaving Logan and me in a cloud of exhaust. I started walking toward the exit, hoping I could find a spot to call a rideshare. “Hey, Mrs. G!” Logan called out, jogging to catch up. “Where are you going?” I looked at him, confused. “To find a cab?” “You’re gonna walk? It’s three miles to the main road.” He checked his phone as it started ringing. “Hold on.” He answered, and I caught bits of the conversation. “Yeah… I know… I’m not gonna leave her in the middle of nowhere… Since when did you care so much?” He hung up and jerked his thumb toward his SUV. “C’mon. Your husband told me to make sure you got home safe.” “Nate did?” “Look, Nate’s a prick sometimes, but he’s not a monster. He wouldn’t leave a girl stranded out here. Neither would I.” I managed a small, tired smile. “Thank you, Logan.” He dropped me off in the city, and I immediately headed to the hospital. My mother was sleeping when I arrived, her face pale against the white pillows. The nurse told me she’d responded well to the new round of treatment. I sat by her bed for hours. She thought I was just working a high-paying tutoring job to cover the bills. When she woke up, she squeezed my hand, her eyes full of worry. “Riley, don’t work too hard. I just want time with you. If it’s my time to go, it’s my time.” “Don’t say that, Mom,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I’ve got a great job now. Everything is going to be fine.” “My little girl is all grown up,” she sighed, looking at me with so much pride it made my heart ache with the weight of the lie. Later that evening, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. It was Logan. “Hey, Riley? You need to come pick up Nate. He’s… had a few.” “Can’t you just drive him?” “Uh, I’ve got a situation here I can’t leave. Please? He’s at the club on 5th.” When I arrived at the VIP lounge, I found Nate slumped on a velvet sofa, rubbing his temples. A woman in a dangerously short dress was hovering over him, her voice a forced, breathy coo. “Come on, Nate. Let me take you home.” Nate pushed her arm away, his voice a low growl. “Get lost.” “But Nate—” I stood a few feet away, watching the scene. Nate looked up, his eyes bleary, and spotted me. “Come here,” he commanded. The woman shot me a look of pure venom before stalking off. I walked over to him, feeling a strange mix of pity and frustration. “Ready to go?” “Get me some water first.” He tugged at his tie, looking genuinely miserable. I grabbed a fresh bottle from the table and handed it to him. He drank the whole thing in one go, which seemed to clear his head slightly. He stood up, gave a curt nod to the room, and walked out. I followed him to the parking lot, where he handed me the keys to a black SUV he must have driven to work earlier. The drive home was silent. Nate was passed out in the back seat. When we pulled into the driveway, I reached back to wake him, but as my hand brushed his shoulder, I jumped. He was burning up. Sweat was pouring down his face, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. “Nate? Nate, are you okay? You’re freezing—no, you’re boiling.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397462”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I Converted My $1.2 Million Dowry Into Solid Gold. My Grifter In-Laws Lost Their Minds. The night before my wedding, my father quietly wired $1.2 million into my personal account. “Tuck this away, sweetheart,” he had told me over the phone, his voice thick with emotion. “This is your safety net. Just for you.” My heart squeezed. First thing the next morning, I walked into the bank. The teller smiled politely. “Looking to set up a high-yield savings account or a mutual fund today, ma’am?” I shook my head. “Convert it all to gold bullion, please. And I’ll need a safe deposit box.” On the day of the wedding, my mother-in-law, Martha, smiled brighter than the venue’s chandeliers. As she hugged me, her fingers digging slightly into my lace sleeves, she whispered, “You brought the nest egg your father promised, right?” I gave a vague nod. A sharp, calculating gleam flashed in her eyes. It took exactly one day for the facade to crack. The afternoon after we returned from our brief honeymoon, my husband asked for my debit card. “Brittany’s looking to buy a car for her new business,” he said casually, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s easier if she just uses your card. We’re all family now, right?” I handed him my everyday checking card. An hour later, he came storming back into the apartment, his face flushed with a terrifying, unfamiliar rage. “Why are there only three hundred bucks in your account?” he shouted. “Where is the 1.2 million?!” I looked at him calmly from the sofa. “What 1.2 million?” 01 Bradley’s face contorted into something ugly and unrecognizable. The man standing before me—the man I had proudly thought of as ambitious, hardworking, and kind—suddenly looked like a stranger. “Naomi, drop the act.” His voice was a shrill, grating sound that scraped against my eardrums. “My mother heard everything. Your dad gave you over a million dollars!” I leaned back into the cushions. I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink. My gaze drifted up to the framed wedding portrait we had so carefully hung on the wall just weeks ago. In the photo, his smile was soft, his eyes brimming with a love that looked like it could swallow the world. How painfully ironic. Overnight, my entire life had morphed into a punchline. “Have you been going through my things, Bradley?” My tone was entirely flat, stripped of any emotion. The question choked him for a second, but he quickly rebounded, his entitlement roaring back to life. “Your things? We’re married! Your money is our money!” “Our money?” I finally lifted my eyes to meet his bloodshot stare. The word tasted vile in my mouth. “Your family, or mine?” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on, he exploded. He spun around and began tearing through the room like a rabid animal. He ripped open my luggage. Clothes I had meticulously folded were yanked out and hurled across the hardwood floor. He was frantic, entirely devoid of reason, a man possessed by greed. The bedroom door flew open, and Martha practically threw herself into the room, her face tight with anxiety. She took one look at the chaotic mess of my belongings on the floor and didn’t offer a single word of reprimand to her son. Instead, she dropped to her knees and joined the hunt. She was much more methodical than Bradley. She aggressively squeezed the linings of my coats. She even checked the padding of my bras. Her cloudy eyes shone with a desperate, feverish hunger, like a pirate digging for buried treasure. I watched them. I watched my carefully packed life reduced to a pile of scattered rags. The last remaining shred of warmth I held for this family tore right down the middle, dissolving into nothing. The room smelled of sweat, panic, and something deeply pathetic. Eventually, they came up empty-handed, save for a few low-limit credit cards and a couple hundred dollars in cash from my wallet. Martha gripped the cash in her fist like a lifeline. She whipped around, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger right at my nose. “Where is it? Tell me! Where did you hide that money?!” She was screaming so loud I could feel the spray of her spit. “You thief! Did you secretly transfer it back to your father? Let me tell you something, Naomi. You married into this family, which means you belong to us now! Hand it over!” Bradley stood right behind her, playing the loyal foot soldier. “Mom’s right! We just got married, and you’re already hiding things from me? Do you even respect me as a husband? Do you even care about this family?” He kept saying this family, but every time the words left his lips, it sounded like a butcher sharpening a knife. Watching the two of them feed off each other’s hysteria made my stomach churn with nausea. I didn’t yell back. Getting into a barking match with a rabid dog only leaves you covered in fleas. Instead, I calmly picked up my phone, unlocked it, and opened the calculator app. The sharp, synthetic clicks of the keypad cut through the heavy breathing in the room. Bradley and Martha froze, exchanging confused glances. I ignored them and began tallying out loud. “The catering for the reception, one hundred and fifty guests. Eighteen thousand dollars.” “The florist and the DJ. Seven thousand.” “That custom Italian suit you’re wearing in that photo. Two thousand, five hundred.” “The favors, the transportation, the miscellaneous fees. Four thousand.” “Grand total: Thirty-one thousand, five hundred dollars.” I turned the screen around to face them. The glowing green numbers were cold and indisputable. “Now, the wedding gifts. Your extended family contributed exactly three thousand dollars. My family gave twenty-five thousand. My friends and coworkers gave another four thousand.” I paused, letting the silence stretch. “When you do the math, I essentially subsidized this entire wedding out of my own pocket, saving your family thousands. Should we settle that tab first?” Bradley’s face instantly turned the color of bruised plum. His lips trembled, but he couldn’t form a single word. Martha looked like she had been slapped. She clearly hadn’t expected me to have the receipts loaded and ready. “So… so what!” she finally stammered, though her voice lacked its earlier venom. “Your dad gave you over a million dollars! What’s a few thousand for a wedding? That million is the real prize!” “Yes, my father gave me money.” I lowered my phone, my voice remaining an absolute deadpan. “It’s my safety net. It’s for my future. Why would I tell you about it? And more importantly, why on earth would I give it to you?” “You—!” I had backed him into a corner, and the humiliation snapped whatever restraint Bradley had left. With a guttural sound, he lunged forward, raising his hand high, aiming a hard slap right at my face. I knew he would snap. I had been waiting for it. The second his arm went up, my body reacted faster than my brain. I took a swift step back, simultaneously raising my phone. I had already switched it to the camera. I hit record. The cold, unblinking lens acted like a mirror, capturing his contorted, violent expression and his hand suspended mid-air. His momentum died instantly. He froze, caught in the digital crosshairs. The room went dead silent. 02 Bradley’s arm hung stiffly in the space between us, trapped. The violent rage on his face evaporated, replaced by a sudden, sickening panic. Martha gasped, pointing a shaking finger at my phone. “What… what are you doing? Are you recording him? Delete that right now!” I didn’t spare her a glance. I kept my eyes locked on Bradley’s. “Were you going to hit me?” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was an ice pick driving straight into his skull. “You really need to think about the consequences of letting that hand drop, Bradley.” The muscles in his forearm twitched. Slowly, pathetically, he lowered his arm to his side. “I… I didn’t mean it, Naomi. I was just stressed.” He tried to force a placating smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Please don’t be mad. Let’s just sit down and talk about this.” I hit stop, slipped the phone into my pocket, and turned my back on him. I walked out to the living room, leaving them behind. From the bedroom, I could hear Martha’s hushed, venomous cursing and Bradley’s frantic whispering. I had won the battle for tonight. But I knew this was only the opening act. Once the floodgates of greed are opened, they can never be forced shut. The next morning, I was pulled from sleep by a cacophony of voices in the living room. I threw on a robe and opened my door to a bizarre tableau. Our modest apartment was packed. The sofa was crammed with middle-aged women I barely recognized—Bradley’s various aunts and cousins. They all turned to look at me, their eyes sweeping over me with blatant judgment. Martha sat dead center, her eyes rimmed red. She was dabbing at completely dry eyes with a crumpled tissue. The Family Tribunal had commenced. Before I could even speak, a woman with a tight perm and a mole near her mouth—Aunt Susan, I recalled—spoke up. Her tone was dripping with patronizing condescension. “So this is the new bride. Look, Naomi, honey, I’m not trying to lecture you, but you can’t be this selfish.” She sighed heavily. “Bradley and Brittany are blood. Brittany is trying to get her boutique off the ground and she’s desperate for capital. You’re her sister-in-law. You’re sitting on a mountain of cash. How can you just watch her drown?” Another wiry aunt chimed in immediately. “Exactly! When you marry, two families become one. Your money is Bradley’s money. What’s the harm in a little bridge loan? When Brittany’s business takes off, she’ll take good care of you both!” They buzzed around me like a swarm of angry flies. Every word was a calculated strike at my character, painting me as a cold, heartless villain. Right on cue, the guest room door opened. Brittany walked out, fully dressed in a brand-new designer dress, her makeup flawlessly applied. She hardly looked like a struggling entrepreneur on the brink of ruin. She made a beeline for her mother and buried her face in Martha’s shoulder, sobbing theatrically. “Mom, it’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, Bradley and Naomi wouldn’t be fighting.” Through her fake tears, I saw her throwing sidelong glances at me. “I’ve poured my heart and soul into this clothing line. I’m so close to making it work. I just need this one little injection of cash…” She sniffled loudly. “I drained my own savings to help pay for Bradley’s wedding ring because I thought, hey, once Naomi’s in the family, things will be easier. We’ll support each other. I never imagined… she would despise me this much.” It was an Academy Award-winning performance. The aunts ate it up, their righteous indignation flaring. “It’s a sin, I tell you! Marrying a girl with a heart made of stone!” “Refusing to help her own sister-in-law. It’s just cruel.” Martha stroked Brittany’s hair, wailing about how cursed their family was. Bradley sat next to them, looking painfully conflicted. His brows were furrowed in a perfect display of manufactured distress. He reached out, gently tugging at the sleeve of my robe. His voice was soft, pleading. “Naomi, look at her. Brittany really needs this. Just do me a solid, okay? Be the bigger person. Let’s just transfer some funds to tide her over.” “We’re family. Let’s not make this ugly.” Every word he spoke was another nail in the coffin of our marriage. Be the bigger person. Tide her over. Family. The audacity was staggering. I looked around the living room at these strangers, these hostile faces staring at me as if I were a criminal on trial. They were waiting for me to break. They wanted my submission. I took a deep, slow breath. And then, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Without a word, I turned the screen toward the room, cranked the volume to the maximum, and hit play. The video from last night lit up the screen. Bradley’s violently contorted face. His hand raised, ready to strike me. “Naomi, drop the act!” “You thief! Did you secretly transfer it back to your father?” “Were you going to hit me? You really need to think about the consequences of letting that hand drop, Bradley.” The audio rang through the living room like a series of gunshots. The room went instantly, horrifyingly silent. You could have heard a pin drop on the rug. The self-righteous aunts were paralyzed, their eyes wide, their mouths hanging open. Brittany’s theatrical sobbing cut off abruptly. She stared at the screen, dumbfounded. Martha’s complexion cycled through a fascinating spectrum: red, to bone-white, to a sickly, ashen gray. And Bradley—Bradley was a statue. The color drained from his face until he looked like a corpse. I locked my phone and let my gaze sweep over the room, meeting each of their eyes one by one. “Now,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Who else wants to tell me to be the bigger person?” 03 The great Family Tribunal ended in a spectacular, suffocating awkwardness. The aunts couldn’t get out of the apartment fast enough. They mumbled excuses, avoiding my gaze entirely, scattering like cockroaches when the kitchen light is flipped on. Soon, it was just the three of them left. The silence in the apartment was so thick you could choke on it. Martha and Brittany retreated to their room and didn’t make a sound. Bradley remained on the sofa, his head in his hands, looking like a beaten dog. From that day forward, Bradley’s entire personality shifted. He morphed into the perfect, doting husband, but the performance was so aggressively transparent it made my skin crawl. He took over every household chore. Before my alarm even went off, he was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. When I got home from work, dinner was steaming on the table. One evening, while I was reading on the couch, he actually came over, sat on the floor, and tried to aggressively massage my feet. “Naomi, I was so wrong,” he murmured, working his thumbs into my arches, looking up at me with wide, remorseful eyes. “I’m a monster. I can’t believe I lost my temper like that.” He sighed, shifting the blame with practiced ease. “It was my mother. She was in my ear, winding me up, and I just lost my head. You know how she gets.” He traced a circle on my ankle. “I swear to you, you’re the only thing that matters to me. I married you because I love you. It never had anything to do with the money.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. The honeyed words just kept flowing, painting a picture of our bright, beautiful future. “Just think about it, babe,” he said softly. “That money is just sitting there. We could use it to upgrade. Get a beautiful house in a prime school district. Give our future kids the best life possible.” “Or we could put it into a mutual fund. Let the money work for us. We’d never have to stress about a mortgage again.” He watched my face closely, hunting for any sign that my armor was cracking. His eyes were wide with ‘dreams for our future,’ but all I saw was a desperate, ravenous hunger for my bank account. He honestly thought he could love-bomb me into submission. He thought a foot rub and some scrambled eggs would make me forget who he really was. It was laughable. I pulled my feet away from him and tucked them beneath me. Watching his pathetic acting felt like watching a bad off-Broadway play. I didn’t even have the energy to call him out on it anymore. I knew exactly where this was going. “Naomi, trust me. If you just let me manage the finances, I promise, you can call the shots on everything else.” There it was. The hook. “I’ll make sure you have a generous allowance every month. You can buy whatever you want.” An allowance. He wanted to give me an allowance with my own money. He saw me as a naive, helpless little girl who could be placated with a shiny credit card. I looked down at his eager, desperate face and felt a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. Trying to reason with a grown man blinded by greed was draining the life out of me. I stood up, towering over him. He swallowed hard. “Naomi, where… where actually is the money? Just tell me so I have peace of mind. I won’t touch it, I swear.” I looked down at him and offered a smile. A perfectly cold, hollow smile. “It’s exactly where it belongs.” Without another word, I walked into the master bedroom and locked the door behind me. Through the wood, I could hear Bradley’s breathing turn heavy and ragged. I knew his patience was running out. Mine was already gone. 04 When Bradley’s love-bombing failed to yield a payout, Martha finally decided to take off the gloves. She lacked her son’s subtle manipulation; her malice was entirely blunt force. She launched a campaign of domestic psychological warfare against me. Mornings in our apartment were no longer peaceful. Every day, right at 5:00 AM, the rhythmic, aggressive thwack-thwack-thwack of a meat cleaver hitting a wooden cutting board would echo from the kitchen. It sounded like she was trying to chop right through the granite counter, or maybe right through my skull. I started sleeping with industrial-grade earplugs. Then came the grocery sabotage. I occasionally bought expensive, imported fruit—organic blueberries, Rainier cherries. But the moment I put them in the fridge, they vanished. I knew exactly where they went. One afternoon, I caught Brittany lounging in front of the TV, mindlessly shoveling a handful of my twenty-dollar cherries into her mouth. When she saw me, she didn’t even flinch. She just chewed loudly and lifted her chin in a silent dare. But Martha’s true revenge was served at the dinner table. Whenever I cooked, it was never right.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397461”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day I was released from the correctional facility, my wife, Serena, was there to meet me. She stood by her sleek black Porsche, lighting a cigarette. Through the swirling grey smoke, her expression was a mask of cold indifference. “Miles,” she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. “While you were away, I started sponsoring an underprivileged student.” She paused, watching a hawk circle the perimeter of the prison. “He’s an orphan. All his life, all he ever wanted was a family. In the three years you were gone, we… we had a child together.” The world seemed to tilt on its axis. I stood there, my duffel bag heavy in my hand, my heart hammering against my ribs. “And what about me? I’m your husband, Serena. What am I supposed to be in this little fantasy?” She flicked her ash onto the pavement, her eyes never meeting mine. “It doesn’t matter if you agree or not. Everyone in our circle—the investors, the board, the press—thinks he’s my husband.” She stepped closer, the scent of her expensive perfume clashing with the sterile smell of the prison gates. “You have nowhere to go. Your family’s name is mud, and your bank accounts are frozen. You can stay at the house as a live-in helper—a housekeeper. But if you try to make a scene, if you breathe a word of the truth, I’ll have you back behind bars before sunset. Don’t think for a second I won’t.” I looked at her and felt a slow, jagged smile spread across my face. Serena didn’t realize one simple thing. If I was capable of throwing away three years of my life in a cell for her, I was just as capable of burning her entire world to the ground. 1 Seeing me tremble, Serena stepped forward and pulled me into a hollow embrace. “There, there. I know your ‘golden boy’ pride can’t take this right now,” she whispered against my ear. “But you’ll get used to it once we’re home. My son, Milo… he’s beautiful. You’ll learn to love him.” The drive to our estate was silent and fast. The rolling hills of the Westchester suburbs hadn’t changed, but the man waiting at the front door of our mansion certainly had. A man in his early twenties stood there, cradling a toddler. He watched me with the guarded suspicion of a stray dog protecting its territory. Serena climbed out of the car and naturally took the child from him, kissing his forehead. “This is the new help,” she told him, her voice casual. “He’ll be taking over the heavy lifting around the house. You need to focus on your health, Theo. Just rest.” Theo scanned me from head to toe, a smirk playing on his lips. “He looks a bit rough, Serena. Like he crawled out of a refugee camp. Where on earth did you find him?” I stood in the grand foyer, watching their domestic intimacy with a cold, detached gaze. Serena glanced at me, a sharp warning in her eyes. She remembered the old Miles—the hot-headed heir to a real estate empire who never took an insult lying down. But I didn’t snap. I simply bent down and straightened her discarded heels by the door. “Where is my room, Ms. Victor?” I asked quietly. Serena blinked, clearly caught off guard by my sudden docility. An flicker of annoyance crossed her face. She pointed toward a small, cramped door near the back of the kitchen. “Theo likes his privacy. You’ll stay in the utility room. It’s closer to the kitchen anyway; you’ll need to be up early to start breakfast.” Theo stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Serena’s waist. “Make sure you scrub your hands, old man. The baby has a sensitive stomach. We can’t have any… prison germs near him.” Suddenly, the little boy threw a heavy wooden block directly at my face. “Bad man! Get out of my house!” The sharp edge of the block caught me right above the eye. I felt the hot sting of blood beginning to trickle down my forehead. Theo gasped, but not for me. “Oh, Milo! Did you hurt your hand? Don’t throw your toys, baby. If you break them, Mommy has to work even harder to buy new ones.” Serena looked at the cut on my head and then pushed me toward the utility room. “Miles, don’t look at me like that. We never even had a formal wedding before you went away. As far as the world is concerned, Theo is the father of my child. My grandfather adores Milo; he’s already planning to name me the sole heir of the Victor Group. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to outshine the other illegitimate cousins?” Hard? If I hadn’t taken the fall for her embezzlement three years ago, she would have been the one in a jumpsuit, cast out of the family long ago. That would have been hard. But as I opened my mouth to demand a divorce, Serena reached out and touched the wound on my forehead. Her voice softened, manipulative as ever. “Theo has been through a lot to be with me. Just… stay out of his way. He and Milo are everything to me now.” She patted my shoulder, and when I flinched, her voice turned to ice. “The house of your father is bankrupt, Miles. Everyone you know has turned their back on you. Without me, you’re a vagrant. Stay in your place, and you’ll at least have a roof over your head.” I looked at my shoes and said nothing. She turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the marble. I slid down the wall of the utility room until I hit the floor. Serena thought I was broken. She thought I was a stray she could keep on a leash. She was wrong. Three years in a cage teaches you one thing: when you finally strike, you make sure it’s fatal. 2 The utility room was packed with Theo’s Amazon boxes and discarded gym equipment. I cleared a small space and lay down on a thin folding cot. Through the door, I could hear the sounds of a happy family. The muffled laughter from a sitcom on the TV, the sound of Theo feeding Serena fruit, their voices hushed and intimate. That used to be my life. When Serena’s first startup failed and she was facing a decade of fraud charges, I stepped in. I told the investigators the offshore accounts were mine. “Miles,” she had sobbed the night before I turned myself in. “Trust me. I’ll get you out in a month. I just need time to move the money.” One month turned into thirty-six. “Miles! Are you done moping? Get out here and make dinner!” Serena’s voice barked from the hallway. When I emerged, Theo was splayed out on the velvet sofa, buffing his nails. He pointedly stretched his legs out as I passed. “Ugh, this rug is filthy. Serena, I can feel the dust on my feet.” Serena didn’t look up from her phone. “Miles, scrub the rug.” I didn’t argue. I filled a bucket, grabbed a brush, and knelt on the floor. Theo’s foot intentionally nudged my shoulder as I worked. “So, what did you do before the ‘big house,’ anyway? You’re so… rugged,” he mocked. I kept my head down, my movements mechanical. “I was a guest of the state.” Theo jumped up with exaggerated horror. “Oh my god, like a murderer? Serena, having someone like this in the house…” Serena pulled him into her lap, giving me a smirk. “White-collar crime. He’d do anything for a quick buck. But don’t worry, Theo. If he steps out of line, I have the warden on speed dial.” My hand tightened on the brush. Three years ago, Serena was the “poor relation,” the illegitimate daughter the Victors ignored. My family was at the top of the social ladder. My father was alive. I was the heir apparent. Back then, Serena looked at me like I was the sun. She used to cry at the thought of me being uncomfortable. I wondered when, exactly, her heart had rotted through. My thoughts were shattered by Theo’s voice. “Oh, Serena, this jade pendant you gave me is so tacky. It looks so old. Can I just toss it? Buy me a Chrome Hearts one instead?” I looked up, my blood turning to ice. The pendant around his neck—it was my father’s. The only thing left of my family’s legacy after the bankruptcy. I lunged forward, a roar building in my chest. I snatched the pendant from his neck, my hand shaking. I raised my other hand to strike Serena, but she was faster. She grabbed my wrist, her grip like a vice. She slammed me against the wall, whispering harshly. “It’s just a piece of jewelry. Theo liked it, so I gave it to him. Miles, I know I owe you, and I’ll take care of you, but don’t you ever touch Theo’s things again.” Theo scoffed, muttering that the “junk” wasn’t worth the drama anyway, and led Serena upstairs. The next morning, while I was prepping breakfast, Theo leaned against the kitchen doorway wearing my old silk robe. It was too big for him, slipping off his shoulders to reveal dark, fresh bruises on his neck. He wanted me to see them. “Miles, right? Serena told me about you. The great fallen prince of Manhattan. She says you were always so… stiff. Boring. A ‘wooden’ lover, she called you. Doesn’t matter how long you were together; you never really satisfied her.” He smirked, stepping closer. “Unlike me. I barely have to try, and she’s obsessed.” My knife moved rhythmically against the cutting board. My hands were steady. “Is that so? Her taste must have shifted. She used to tell me she hated needy, parasitic little boys. She called them ‘nuisances.’” Theo’s face distorted with rage. “You don’t know anything! She loves me! I’m the father of her child. I’m the one she actually married.” I plated the ham and turned to look him in the eye. “Really? Did you get a marriage certificate, or just a promise?” 3 Theo’s facade cracked instantly. “A piece of paper doesn’t matter! I’m the one in her bed! I’m the one she loves!” He lunged at me, trying to shove me. I stepped aside with the grace of someone who had learned to fight in a concrete yard. He stumbled, knocking a stack of porcelain plates to the floor. The crash echoed through the house, bringing Serena running. She saw the mess and immediately shoved me back. “Miles! What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you attacking him?” My back hit the marble counter, a sharp pain radiating through my spine—an old prison injury acting up. Theo collapsed against her, sobbing theatrically. “Serena, I know I’m just an orphan… I know I’m not ‘high society’ like him. but I’m not some piece of trash! Our son isn’t a mistake!” Serena’s face darkened. She stepped toward me and delivered a stinging slap across my face. “You ungrateful prick,” she hissed. “Theo and Milo are the most important people in my world. Who gave you the right to talk to them like that? Apologize. Now.” I wiped a trail of blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “And if I don’t?” Serena laughed coldly, pulling out her phone. “No apology? Fine. Then I’ll stop the payments for your mother’s care facility. I heard her condition is worsening. Without those specialized meds, she won’t last through the winter.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. Before I went to prison, I had entrusted my dying mother to Serena. She was the only reason I had come back to this house. Serena waved the phone in front of my face. “Get on your knees and beg Theo for forgiveness. Otherwise, you’ll never see your mother again.” I looked at the woman I once loved more than life itself. I took a deep breath and slowly lowered my knees to the cold floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Victor,” I said, the words tasting like ash. Theo smiled triumphantly. He walked over and used the toe of his slipper to lift my chin. “Remember this. In this house, you’re the dog. I’m the master.” He leaned down, whispering so only I could hear: “Since you were so polite, I’ll let you in on a secret. Your mother? That old bitch died a year ago. Guess where her ashes are? Probably in a landfill by now.” The world went white. I surged upward, grabbing the chef’s knife from the counter, and drove it toward his chest. 4 The blade didn’t hit Theo. It sank into Serena’s shoulder. She had thrown herself in front of him, shielding him with her own body. Serena turned to me, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and profound disappointment. “Miles… I thought three years would have knocked the violence out of you. I see you haven’t learned a thing. It’s time you learned how to behave.” She barked an order, and two heavy-set security guards burst into the kitchen. I fought, screaming her name. “Serena! Where is my mother? Tell me where she is!” Her expression flickered with something strange, but her voice remained cold. “Throw him in the basement. No food, no water for three days. Let him rot until he remembers who owns him.” The basement was a damp, windowless void. My back throbbed, and the hunger began to gnaw at me within hours. I lost track of time. I hallucinated my mother’s voice, her gentle hand on my hair. But I couldn’t die here. Not yet. I felt along the walls in the dark until I found a rusted ventilation grate. I used every ounce of my remaining strength to pry it open, the jagged metal slicing my palms. I crawled through the narrow, dusty shaft and out into the cold night air. I spent the next twenty-four hours walking. I visited every high-end care facility in the tri-state area until I found the last one on my list. The nurse at the front desk looked at me with pity as she checked the records. “I’m so sorry, sir. Your mother passed away a year ago due to complications after her medication was discontinued for non-payment. We contacted the family representative, a Ms. Serena Victor. She requested immediate cremation and handed the remains over to a Mr. Theo Victor.” I stood frozen, a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I had suffered in that hellhole for her. I had let men beat me and break me, all to keep my mother safe. And Serena had let her die like a discarded bill. The phone on the desk rang. The nurse looked startled, then handed it to me. “It’s for you. A woman.” Serena’s voice came through the line, sharp and commanding. “Miles, how dare you run away? I’ll explain everything about your mother when you get back. Now, stop being dramatic. I’m not even charging you for the stabbing. I’m taking Theo to my grandfather’s heir-apparent ceremony. Get back here right now and watch the baby.” I listened until my vision blurred with tears. Then, I wiped them away and looked toward the city skyline. “Serena,” I whispered to the empty air. “I am going to take everything from you.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397459”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel